


Raise Your Glass

by SeaOfBones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Lavellan (Dragon Age), Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dorian Pavus Has Issues, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Last Resort of Good Men, Fluff and Angst, It wouldn't be a canon compliant DA:I experience without a detour to The Hinterlands, It's like Miss Congeniality but everyone acknowledges that Sandra Bullock was already a babe, Josephine Montilyet is a big nerd, M/M, Orlesian Culture and Customs, POV Dorian Pavus, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts, Slow Burn, The Inquisition is one big dysfuctional family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-01-05 10:25:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 43
Words: 71,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaOfBones/pseuds/SeaOfBones
Summary: Since he joined the Inquisition, Dorian has watched Inquisitor Lavellan run ragged dealing with demons, diplomats and Venatori agents. But when the Inquisiton needs to get the Dalish apostate ready to be plunged into Orlais' Grand Game at the Winter Palace, it's Dorian and Josephine that have their work cut out for them.





	1. Chapter 1

Dorian looked up from his book. There went the Inquisitor again, scurrying across the library. Up to Leliana's little crow's nest. Back carrying - was that a bag of severed fingers? - for the tranquil. Towards the stairs, stopping, turning on his heel and ducking through another door, moving stiffly in the starched beige tunic that someone - he wasn't sure whether Cassandra or Josephine was to blame - thought was an appropriate outfit for _the leader of the Inquisition_.

Skyhold was so labyrinthine, he could have been be going anywhere. Dorian had only bothered to memorise how to get between his bed, the tavern and the library. And where to stand in the reading nooks to put himself out of Leliana's view, although he was certain she had her ways - with the Venatori hounding them, perhaps she'd trained her damned birds to read, just enough to make sure the _dangerous Tevinter infiltrator_ wasn't studying illicit blood magic.

Right on schedule, Lavellan walked back into the library. Dorian leaned against the bookshelf and looked back to his work, pretending not to notice as the elf's zig-zagging eventually brought him to Dorian's corner.

"Dorian."

He looked up. Lavellan's expression was resting in a frown, as usual, his rift-green eyes dimmed to hazel in the library's low candle-light. His hands, though, he fidgeted with, smearing black ink from his palm to his fingers.

"Inquisitor," Dorian replied, spreading a smirking mask across his face. "Something terrible seems to have happened to your mark."

Lavellan's face froze for a moment before his eyes fell to his hands. He heaved a tired sigh and wiped his palms on his tunic, leaving black streaks across the beige.

"It was my to-do list," he muttered, still loitering just outside the nook.

"Oh dear, I suppose there's nothing else to be done today, then." Still holding a book with the pretence of doing something, Dorian used his foot to pull out the chair at the study desk. He thought he caught a hint of a smile on Lavellan's mouth as he crossed to sit down. Lavellan immediately slumped back, leaning his blonde head against the bookshelf and stretching his mud-caked boots across the floor, taking up a surprising amount of space for such a short elf.

"So, are these little check-ins on your to-do list?" Dorian asked, loudly turning a page he hadn't read.

"Oh, I was... just passing," Lavellan replied vacantly.

Dorian found himself looking down at Lavellan's face in profile, the bumpy curve of his once-broken nose, his closed eyes, the branch-like tattoos that spread along his cheekbones. Lavellan sunk his chin down towards his chest and seemed to doze, then bolted upright as he caught himself.

"Wait, there was something," he said quickly, unbuttoning his cuff and rolling his sleeve up. More scrawlings in Dalish script. Dorian burst out laughing and Lavellan stopped to look up at him. "What?"

"It seems Josephine is rubbing off on you," Dorian said, trying to wipe the smirk off his face and failing. "Perhaps you should start carrying a journal and candle as well."

"Well," Lavellan said, trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his pointed ear but only succeeding in smearing more ink around. He jabbed a finger at once of his illegible sentences. "Leliana asked that you use less hot water for your baths, the kitchen needs it."

“That’s what our spymaster asked our great leader to tell me?” Dorian replied. "Really, Inquisitor. You Southerners' insistence on holing yourself up in such inhospitably cold and draft-ridden keeps is rather a problem for those of us used to a warmer climate."

Lavellan sat forward and lifted his chin. “I’m sure you can come to some sort of compromise,” he said, failing to hide the fact that he was smiling by inspecting his filthy nails. “You could share your bath with Leliana’s crows, perhaps.”

“Is the Herald of Andraste teasing me?” Dorian said in feigned shock. “Surely not.”

Lavellan put his chin in his hand and smiled up at Dorian. “Surely not.”

“My lord,” a hurried voice said. Lavellan’s face hardened again and he sat up straight. It was a young woman dressed in a blue cloak with an Inquisition clasp, one of the messengers. “Lady Montilyet has called a briefing in the war room.”

“Of course,” Lavellan replied. “We’ll be down shortly.”

The messenger bowed awkwardly and passed on, up towards Vivienne’s pretend little First Enchanter’s study. Lavellan stared into the distance, fingers tightening in his lap.

“…Lavellan?” Dorian said.

The elf lowered his head into his hands, seeming all at once small again. Dorian’s mind raced for something clever to say that would fill the silence that spread out from the Inquisitor.

“No rest for the wicked, I’m afraid,” Dorian eventually decided on. He regretted saying it as soon as he closed his mouth. Lavellan nodded slowly, lowering his hands, and staggered to his feet.

“Let’s hear what’s on fire this time,” Lavellan murmured, stalking away from Dorian across the library once more.

\---

Inquisitor Lavellan and his advisors stood at the head of the table, the rest of his so-called “inner circle” clustered around on chairs that had become more and more uniform over time as Josephine’s orders from Val Royeaux arrived. Sitting at the far end of the room, Dorian felt like a naughty schoolboy hiding at the back of class so the tutor wouldn’t notice he was scribbling and light his quill on fire to get his attention.

“It’s the perfect occasion for an assassin,” Leliana was explaining, her hands poised over a miniature replica of one of Empress Celene’s pleasure palaces. Dorian was trying to decide if Cullen or Josephine was more likely to have miniature building as a hobby. He might try to get a closer look. If it was filled with perfect miniature furniture, it would be Josephine.

“Can’t we get her to call it off?” Lavellan sighed, leaning his knuckles on the table.

Cullen, standing to Lavellan’s side, gave Josephine and Leliana a rather pointed look. “I’ve been wondering that myself.”

“An insecurity about her ability to protect her own court would… suggest weakness,” Josephine replied, flourishing her quill.

“And given her precarious position due to the ongoing civil war…” Leliana added, gesturing to what Dorian assumed were more adorable miniatures.

“Right,” Lavellan grumbled.

“I’m still working on procuring an invitation,” Josephine said. “But we need to start preparations as soon as possible.”

Lavellan squinted at Josephine. “What sort of… preparations?”

Josephine began to pace around the table, her pearly teeth emerging in a delicate smile. “The Grand Game can be… very dangerous, even for those who have played it all their lives. Every word, gesture, expression will be scrutinised. If you are to attend without making obstacles of the nobility at every turn, you must be able to play it.”

“I would like to think that our deeds speak for themselves,” Lavellan said with a frown.

“Our deeds will be what gets us through the door, despite the court’s… distaste for both the Inquisition, and for you specifically,” Josephine replied. Its distaste for elves, she meant. Not that Dorian’s homeland was any better. Well, that wasn’t quite the way to put it. Considering that his homeland was definitely worse, was perhaps more accurate. “Unfortunately,” Josephine continued, “they will not get us much further.”

“That gives us a month to train you in the etiquette the nobility would expect of an emissary,” Leliana said. “Your appearance, your manner, your speech, your movements. Knowledge of history, heraldry, Orlesian court dances. You will not be able to get anywhere near the Empress if you are blunt with her, or walk into the Winter Palace with muddy boots.”

Lavellan’s eyes fell to his grubby fingers, his stained tunic, indeed to his muddy boots, and he clenched his hand against the table. Dorian’s heart sank as he thought of how exhausted Lavellan had looked before they’d come down here. Running around Skyhold dealing with the Inquisition’s affairs, squabbling Templars and gaping holes in the sky, and now he would be learning to smile prettily for people who would still call him a knife-eared heretic apostate once his back was turned.

“Fortunately, you are well-equipped with tutors,” Leliana added. “Myself, Josephine and Vivienne are well acquainted with The Grand Game, and of the rest of your companions, Cassandra and Dorian have experience of other nobility.”

“What?” Cassandra managed to say while Dorian was still blinking. “Stop laughing, Varric,” she hissed.

“I’m not laughing, Seeker,” Varric lied.

Leliana caught Dorian’s eye and gave him a smile so placid he knew there was death behind it if he didn’t agree to help. He looked to Lavellan, who was staring blankly between himself, Cassandra and Vivienne.

“You’ll be fine, darling,” Vivienne piped up, thankfully drowning out the sound of Cassandra and Varric sniping at each other. “I’ve never had a student completely embarrass themselves at court.”

“Well, that fills me with confidence,” Lavellan replied. He met Dorian’s eyes. Dorian supposed he should say something, given that everyone now seemed to be looking at him.

“And if you do embarrass yourself terribly, I am not above throwing a drink over one of the Empress’ handmaidens as a cunning distraction,” Dorian found his mouth saying. Lavellan smiled a little, at least.

And as Leliana and Josephine began to talk about the specifics of who would tailor the Inquisitor’s outfit, who would be responsible for teaching what, Dorian found himself hoping Lavellan was thinking the same thing he was: It would only be a month, for better or for worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Lavellan didn’t come by the library the next day. Dorian found himself actually making some progress into the research on Tevinter houses and Venatori agents he was allegedly carrying out. This was probably the longest he’d actually spent reading since he arrived at Skyhold. Certainly since he’d received the letter about Felix. So, surely that meant he deserved a break. Gathering his papers, he stepped out towards the library balcony and leaned forward, seeing if he could spot Leliana looming down from her perch. Only the crows, and a rather startled pair of the spymaster’s messengers, who immediately scrambled to look like they were doing something useful. Dorian supposed there was only one thing for it, then. Off to the tavern.

Dorian took the long way down, to avoid running into whatever the hell it was Solas did down there. He and Lavellan seemed to communicate entirely through notes passed back and forth through the tranquil. He could only assume they were on opposite sides of some sort of horrific Dalish cultural schism that wasn’t to be mentioned to outsiders.

The keep’s main hall was still full of scaffolding, and every so often dust would shower down from the movement of the construction work above. Dorian liked to think he got out of the way more often than he didn’t. He crossed the courtyard through the briskly cold air, aware of the silence that opened and closed behind him. People generally didn’t like to look at him – Skyhold was full of templars, and it was generally fairly easy for people to identify him as being from the Imperium. It was at least better than it had been just after Haven, with all the new recruits flooding in keen to fight _the ancient Tevinter Darkspawn_ and apparently assuming it was him.

At least the embarrassingly named Herald’s Rest was fairly close – temptingly close to the library, he’d felt some weeks. Something told him that the tavern’s name was Leliana’s doing. The wooden sign showed a luminous green Andraste, in the Fereldan style, holding the artist’s interpretation of the Inquisitor as a vague figure with a blanket draped over him. Dorian supposed it was difficult to imagine Lavellan sitting to have his portrait painted for a tavern sign. Dorian had been standing underneath it when Cassandra and Leliana brought Lavellan out on to the keep steps to announce him as the Inquisitor. From the trapped animal expression on the elf’s face when he turned around and realised there was a crowd there, Dorian didn’t think Lavellan had been entirely aware of the situation.

Dorian passed through the doorway into the tavern’s warmth. There were a few dozen of Cullen’s soldiers crowding around the place, apparently on a break from training. Dorian spotted Blackwall sitting at the bar by himself, and decided he could do worse for company.

“We’re not doing this again,” Blackwall said as Dorian approached, turning to point a gloved finger at him.

“I have no idea what you’re referring to,” Dorian replied as he swung his legs over the bar stool.

“Last time I agreed to drink with you, you gargled three pints of that disgusting dwarvern cask ale that Cabot was selling for cheap before it went off, and I had to carry you back to your room.”

“I was doing him a favour, really,” Dorian replied, staring at the back of the bar instead of glancing at Blackwall while he racked his brains for what exactly he’d said or done after pint two. It couldn’t have been too embarrassing; he was sure the gossip would have gotten back to him if it had.

“One drink, Dorian, I mean it,” Blackwall said.

“Fine, fine,” Dorian said, holding up his hand to signal Cabot over. He felt a nausea rise in the pit of his stomach as he inhaled the stench of the ale Cabot was pouring further along the bar. Ah, some of it was coming back to him now. He remembered wriggling out of Blackwall’s grasp so he could vomit in the doorway of the quartermaster’s warehouse. He also remembered slurring a threat to set Blackwall’s pack on fire if he told anyone about the incident, which he apparently hadn’t.

He ordered a glass of one of the spirits Cabot kept behind the bar instead. “Yes, the red one. Surprise me.”

He returned Blackwall’s wary gaze with a raised eyebrow as he watched the Warden sip his half-empty cider. Cabot slid the glass of gleaming red liquid across the bar.

“Tried that before, have you?” Blackwall asked.

“Should I have?” Dorian replied. He raised the glass to his lips and realised why Blackwall was starting to chuckle. He gripped the glass hard to keep it from shivering out of his hand as his body registered the drink’s vegetable bitterness.  He exhaled slowly, trying to cool the prickling of the lingering aftertaste. “It’s fine,” he said, lifting the glass for another sip and struggling to look back at Blackwall with a straight face.

“You must have burned your tongue out long ago if you think that’s a ten-minute drink, Dorian,” Blackwall laughed.

Dorian wasn’t entirely sure why he decided to respond to this by downing the rest of his drink. There were questions he could have asked himself, like what he hoped to accomplish by making an ass of himself in front of Blackwall again. He was currently still sober, relatively speaking, even if he could feel the glimmering of the haze beginning to seep in at the corners of his brain.

“Do bring me another, Cabot,” he called down the bar.

“Dorian,” Blackwall said, laying his hand on the bar. Dorian reached over him to fold a coin into Cabot’s palm. “Bring him some water, will you?” Blackwall added in Cabot’s direction.

Dorian snorted irritably.

“There’s no hurry, Dorian,” Blackwall said. Dorian avoided meeting his eyes, having taken enough of a glimpse at the serious expression the Warden was trying to catch him with. “Pace yourself.”

“Or what, you’ll tell the Inquisitor?” Dorian snarled, thudding his empty glass down harder than he meant to. “That’s what everybody around here seems to do when they need a problem solved, and apparently I’m a lot of problems.”

“Dorian,” Blackwall said, lowering his voice. “Don’t make a scene you’ll regret later. A lot of soldiers like a drink, but some of them worry me. And you worry me, Dorian.”

“I can handle myself, Blackwall.” He slammed his second drink back and got to his feet. His stool clattered to the floor, and he decided it would be marginally less embarrassing to pretend that was on purpose. “Well, if you won’t let me relax here, perhaps I’ll return to my own quarters and drink the wine from my trunk,” he said, realising as the words came out that he’d missed ‘glib’ and hit ‘angry’. Half-storming and half-staggering, he picked his way back across the tavern, feeling his face grow hot from the eyes upon him. This time, nobody had any problem looking at him.

“Dorian,” he heard Blackwall sigh, his heavy footsteps beginning to follow him.

Dorian strode towards the keep steps, and looked up just in time to stop dead. Lavellan and Josephine were coming the other way. Josephine gave a little wave. They’d already seen him. Lavellan was completely blank, and Josephine had that nervous, tooth-flashing grin on her face that seemed to only come out when a negotiation had gone horribly wrong.

Blackwall fell in beside Dorian, and they exchanged muffled glares. A truce, in front of the Inquisitor. Dorian folded his arms tightly. He had acted like an idiot. And what, because he was bored?

“We… decided to start from the beginning,” Josephine began to explain as she drew closer. “Inquisitor Lavellan has been studying the intricacies of appropriate greetings. I thought perhaps this would be a good opportunity to practice.”

She looked between the three of them, clasping her hands so tightly her nail beds began to turn pink.

“I’ll lead, if nobody else wishes to start,” Dorian said quickly. He stepped forward.

In a formal occasion, he was supposed to look the other person in the eye while doing this, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it to Lavellan. As if he would somehow be able to tell he’d almost gotten into a shouting match with one of his other companions over his drinking problem from looking at him closely enough. He dropped into a low bow, and twirled his hand.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, a pleasure to meet you,” Dorian said, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“Ah, very interesting,” Josephine said. “Dorian, if you could please hold yourself there. I know a greeting does not normally take so long. Thank you.”

Josephine’s feet turned towards the Inquisitor, and she continued to chatter. “Now, Dorian has bowed very deeply, but will not look at you. Do you remember what this might mean?”

“Perhaps he has something in his eye,” Lavellan replied dryly.

“Inquisitor, please,” Josephine pleaded. “Your serious answer.”

Lavellan sighed, and began to recite. “If he bows deeply it’s a sign of great respect, but if he avoids looking me in the eyes, he’s either demonstrating to me that he’s hiding something I may wish to ask after, or to others that his respect isn’t genuine.”

From the silence, Dorian supposed Josephine was still waiting for something. The grass was still green, and Lavellan’s boots were still caked in mud.

“The ambiguity about whether it shows closeness or distance is what makes it either a faux pas or a suitable move,” Lavellan finished.

“Very good, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied. “Now, how should you respond to this?”

“Does it really matter if he’s not looking?” Lavellan replied.

“Ah, but others _will_ be looking,” Josephine said.

“Fine, fine.” Lavellan’s muddy boots strode out of view, and then returned.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Inquisitor, I’d rather like to stop bowing,” Dorian said.

“Shame, all of this great respect was such an improvement on how you normally speak to me,” Lavellan replied.

“I can give you a reminder, if you are stalling because you have forgotten,” Josephine offered.

“No, I’m certain I remember this one,” Lavellan replied.

And he ducked into a low bow, sweeping one leg back and bringing a fist to rest on his torso. “Lord Pavus, such a pleasure to meet you too.”

“Completely wrong,” Josephine said. “But certainly spirited. If the occasion ever calls for a combination of a lady-in-waiting curtsey and a military greeting, you will certainly have that covered.”

Dorian drew himself back to his feet, and Lavellan followed. Lavellan tried to meet his eyes. Looking at him perhaps a little too closely.

“I need to go,” Dorian said. He turned towards where his sleeping quarters were, and caught sight of Blackwall as he did. That look he was giving him. It was… a pitying look.

“Perhaps you could join us tomorrow,” Lavellan said quickly.

“We had hoped to establish the basics before we asked yourself and Cassandra to assist us,” Josephine added. “But you would be most welcome if you have the time.”

Dorian moved his face into a smile, fairly certain he’d managed to hit ‘glib’ this time. “I’m sure I can make time in my incredibly busy schedule to help the Inquisitor learn which spoons he can use to be rude on purpose.”

“Now, Warden Blackwall,” Josephine said. Dorian took this as his excuse to actually leave, despite Lavellan gesturing with his hand for him to stay. He didn’t exactly trust himself today.

Josephine continued speaking as Dorian strode towards his quarters. “How would you greet someone of a respectful position, but with no ties to the nobility?”


	3. Chapter 3

_I was uncertain if you'd had occasion to visit the guest dining room previously._

_Josephine_

Dorian's feet traced the elaborate directions Josephine's messenger had shoved under his door at some point in the last twelve hours. His eyes were still dry and his head still pulsing from the bottle of cheap Antivan Red he'd followed through on the threat of consuming the night before.

The guest wing was in remarkably good condition, if still sparsely decorated, considering that Dorian was aware of at least one gaping hole above a ravine on the keep’s lower levels. Harritt had shrugged and put a plank over it. Dorian supposed the room with the hole wouldn’t do for the self-important dignitaries Josephine was likely to host here.

“This is ridiculous, Josephine,” Lavellan snapped. Ah, Dorian supposed he was in the right place. He pushed open the door to the guest dining room with a slow creak. Lavellan was sitting at one of the quartet of square tables laid out around the room, Vivienne draped over a chair to his left and Josephine hovering over his shoulder. Lavellan was gripping a hand-length silver implement that ended in a spiralled hook. “What is this? Is this a knife?”

“It is a lobster pick, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied.

Lavellan sighed heavily and stared at the pick as Dorian strode across the room. He barely looked up as Dorian took a seat across from him.

“Really, Josephine, you told me you were covering the basics and yet here you are showing our dear Inquisitor thirty obscure weapons with which he could be murdered,” Dorian said, gesturing at the pick. “It’s a rather nice size for hiding in your sleeves, isn’t it?”

“It rather depends on the sleeves, my dear,” Vivienne replied.

“My family had one in our silverware drawer,” Dorian continued. “An embalming tool, I believe – a gift from a visiting Mortalitasi.”

“Dining etiquette is very serious in Orlais, Dorian,” Josephine said quickly, folding her hands over her ledger. “Leliana’s people are working to discover what will be served at the ball, in case any of it should pose any particular challenge. But in the first instance we must familiarise the Inquisitor with all potential utensils.”

Lavellan stayed silent, the silver implement pulled flat against his palm. Dorian wasn’t sure whether he was listening to Josephine or considering gouging his eyes out with the alleged lobster pick. Eventually, he sighed. “Please tell me Leliana does not have spies working solely on the Winter Palace’s menu.”

“Not solely, no,” Josephine replied. “They are dedicated to the Winter Palace and the Orlesian nobility’s movements, in general.” Her mouth moved in a tight smile. “…There may be one solely dedicated to the menu.”

Lavellan lowered his head into his hands.

“We need to evaluate which dishes might be most easily poisoned or contaminated,” Josephine added quickly. “As well as our more… decorative concerns.”

“I don’t understand,” Lavellan said, voice still muffled by his hands. “This can’t be the most important thing we could be doing.”

Dorian wanted to tell him that it wasn’t. That they could scrap all of this, and he’d make the wrong bows and eat with his fingers and the court would shrug and move on. Josephine and Vivienne weren’t saying anything either. They all knew it. Frivolous as it was, high society was unforgiving. Lavellan took his hands away from his face, letting the lobster pick clatter to the table. Josephine flinched, and Dorian saw her grab her own hand back from dropping to snatch it up before anyone noticed, the way she would if this wasn’t all practice.

“Perhaps you could pass me off as an eccentric,” Lavellan said quietly. “Like Cassandra.”

“Cassandra is…” Josephine began. She took a deep breath. “Cassandra is a _known_ eccentric. She has titles, she is distantly in line to a throne, she is the former Right Hand of the Divine. These accolades would allow her relatively safe passage through court, as long as she is merely attending and not seeking favour. You… do not have these luxuries. Many still view you as an upstart, a heretic, and you will be attending seeking to get close to the Empress. That is what I meant when I said your title will not get us further than the door – there are too many who will not view it in such a positive light.”

“Perhaps we could tell them he’s Dalish nobility,” Dorian suggested, watching Lavellan’s face as he stared at the constellation of cutlery spreading out before him. “They’d hardly know the difference.”

“Even if I was, that wouldn’t matter to shem, would it?” Lavellan spat. Nobody could disagree and be truthful. Lavellan leaned back in his chair and half-covered his face again, fingers resting over the crook of his nose. “I was my clan’s First,” he murmured. “I… I mattered.”

Dorian wanted to be the one to say something, to comfort him. But his cleverness dried up in his throat.

“There are still people displaced all over the Hinterlands because of the war,” Lavellan rambled, voice cracking. “There are corpses coming out of the water in the Fallow Mire. There are rifts all over the Storm Coast. Surely doing anything to help people would be better than this pointlessness.”

“What you must understand, my darling,” Vivienne said carefully. “Is that the pointlessness is the point. The ideal Orlesian courtier is nonchalant, he moves through these complexities as if they are air, as if they are effortless to him. He memorises the order in which one needs to reach for eight courses of cutlery because memorising such a thing is a trifle to him, even if it is not.”

Lavellan stared at the ceiling.

“Many of my students ask the questions you have. Why are we doing this? Perhaps if you remain in the court, you will come to acquire a philosophical stance on why such things are important, as I have. But I have asked all of the young Circle mages that I have tutored for their first appearance at court to put the why aside. The why does not matter for now, only the appearance of knowing the why.”

“I still don’t understand,” Lavellan repeated. Josephine was getting that sinking-ship fixed grin on her face again.

“Inquisitor—” Josephine began.

“I need a break,” Lavellan said quickly. He jumped to his feet and headed for the door.

“Inquisitor!” Josephine called. Dorian held a hand up as the door swung shut.

“Let me speak to him,” Dorian said. “As the person who has spent the least amount of time this morning explaining the difference between a pastry fork and a salad fork to someone who has spent the past six months being told the fate of the entire world rests on his tiny, handsome shoulders.”

Josephine nodded, eyes lowered. Dorian turned to leave.

“Dorian, wait,” Josephine said. “You are his friend, yes?”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian replied, stopping with the door held half-open.

“Have I been pushing him too hard?” Josephine asked, eyes pleading. “This is all happening very suddenly.”

Dorian paused. “We’re pushing him to pretend to be someone he’s not because it will stop people from making his life harder,” he said, hands suddenly itching, fingers tapping impatiently on the door. “I don’t think the issue is how quickly he’s being pushed.”

“We’re not transmogrifying him,” Vivienne sighed, running a stray finger over the lip of one of the table’s four drinking glasses. “You would both rather he be upset now than put himself in danger at the court, am I correct?”

Josephine nodded. Dorian didn’t.

“This medicine, however foul, may save him from the knife in a month’s time.” Vivienne gave an unnaturally warm smile as Dorian reached for the door handle. “Do remember that, my dears.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lavellan was on the ramparts when Dorian found him, the mountain wind ruffling snow through his ash blonde hair. His shoulders were hunched up around his ears, and he held his clasped hands close to his mouth. Dorian could hear him murmuring to himself as he climbed the last few steps, and then he opened his hands beyond the battlements, releasing a scattering of purple petals. They spiralled away in the wind, and as the lavender flecks became indistinguishable from the great white drifts that blew across the Frostback Mountains, Dorian took the last few steps to the Inquisitor’s side and rested his elbows on the cold grey stone.

“You know, you’re an awfully hard man to track down when you put your mind to it,” Dorian said. Lavellan smiled tightly, still looking out across the mountains, but shifted his shoulders, braced his closest hand against the battlement.

"The library was busy," Lavellan replied. Dorian had indeed checked there first, feeling rather foolish when he’d turned the corner and found their usual meeting place empty. “…And I needed some time.

Lavellan sighed, his sharp breath coalescing into a puff of vapour in the cold. Dorian waited.

“I know they mean well,” Lavellan said, eyes dipping. “Josephine wouldn’t be so serious about this if it didn’t matter. But it’s… I could say that this isn’t _me_ , but my idea of what _I_ can do has been… changing recently.”

Lavellan drew his hands in closer to the warmth of his chest, running his thumb over the half-gruesome and half-rugged raised scar that marked the anchor.

“I didn’t want to go to the Conclave,” he said, still rubbing the scar. “But my Keeper insisted. She thought a sympathetic Dalish presence would ensure we weren’t forgotten, and was too old to make the trip herself.”

“Because you were her First,” Dorian said. Lavellan nodded. “I’m not quite sure how to imagine you before all of this,” Dorian added, shifting so he was facing Lavellan. “You had been with the Inquisition for months when we met at Haven.”

“At first, I just wanted to go home,” Lavellan said. He wrung his hands, brows lowered. “I suppose by the time you met me, I’d accepted that I was staying. And that no matter how many times I said I didn’t believe, it was too useful for the Inquisition to position me as Andraste’s Herald.”

“Sadly, Inquisitor, your repeated denials and charming sincerity only serve to give the impression of a holy servant’s humility,” Dorian replied. He couldn’t pretend that he felt differently. It seemed the perfect joke for the Maker to play on the worst parts of the Chantry, to package the solution to the world’s ills into the form of an unkempt elven mage who worshipped his own gods.

Lavellan smiled, at least. “I wish it didn’t.” He leaned against the battlements again. “Living with my clan was different,” he continued. He frowned, suddenly. “I suppose that’s what Solas doesn’t understand.” Whatever Solas didn’t understand, Dorian hoped it was juicy. “Following the Dalish ways isn’t about knowing the deepest secrets, it’s about practicing our traditions. Together. Even the elves from the Alienage understand that, clustering around the little they still remember.”

“That’s part of a First does, actually,” Lavellan added. “The Keeper remembers our ways, and passes them on to her First and Second. I was apprenticed to her to learn magic, but also to learn our people’s rituals and history. In practice I was a healer, mostly.”

“Ah yes, I can picture that,” Dorian said. “It would explain why you have such a terrible habit for taking on other people’s problems.” _And apparently I’m a lot of problems._ Dorian tried not to frown, his embarrassing outburst from yesterday coming back to haunt him.

“I’m not that bad,” Lavellan laughed.

“I’m afraid you are, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian replied. He folded his arms and leaned against the battlements. “It’s why you need me, unfortunately. Someone has to say no.”

Lavellan rested his scarred hand on the battlement and sighed.  “You might be right.” A door creaked shut further along the ramparts and a pair of Cullen’s soldiers passed them, patrolling the fortress walls.

“In all seriousness, I’m going to need all of you at the ball, assuming Josephine does get us invited,” Lavellan said. “Without my clan, my differences aren’t so obvious. I can follow our ways in secret, like my people have often done when we’ve lived with Andrastians. But that doesn’t make me the same as them. It doesn’t make me anything like the human nobility.”

“Inquisitor,” Dorian said softly. “Do you want to know what the point is?”

Lavellan raised his eyes to meet Dorian’s, cautiously. “The point?”

“Of the Orlesian court. Of the games, and the complexities, and the table settings,” Dorian said. Lavellan waited.

“The point is humiliation,” Dorian said, voice turning hard. “Oh, the trappings are different in the Imperium. Bloodlines, breeding and genealogical charts. But they are not made to raise, Lavellan. They are made to keep you sneering at those below, to fear your peers doing the same to you should you, in some way, fall.”

“Speaking from experience?” Lavellan said, the bridge of his nose creasing in concern.

“As I’ve said, Inquisitor.” Dorian smiled bitterly. “There is a reason I left.”

He leaned away from the battlements. “Certainly, if you, as Josephine would put it, play well, it could be exhilarating. You really felt like you had the power to change things. Not, in reality, as great a power as you might have imagined, of course.” Dorian sniffed dismissively. “Tevinter is stagnant, and I can hardly imagine Orlais being an improvement. After all, when Alexius still seemed to care, the only efforts of his that were accepted by the Magisterium were calls to give the Circle more funding. But it’s power, nonetheless. Each incremental victory a triumph, each tiny setback a tragedy.”

He rubbed the depression at the base of his finger, still lingering from where he’d worn Alexius’ signet ring for years. A sign of the Magister’s favour, bestowed on his most talented research assistants. Dorian had developed a number of rather effective dramatic flourishes with it. Shifting his glass of wine or his staff to the hand that wore it to ensure that whoever he was speaking to realised he was wearing it at precisely the right moment.

“…Was this supposed to be reassuring?” Lavellan asked.

“In a very bleak way, I suppose it was,” Dorian replied. “The Inquisition will be entering at the very bottom rung of the court, boosted perhaps by curiosity about you and your abilities. We can fail, certainly. The entire court can be assassinated and the continent overrun by Darkspawn, etcetera. But you cannot fail as a noble would. You cannot jeopardise a land dispute by failing to show proper deference to a distant cousin of the Empress.”

Dorian looked back across at Skyhold’s keep. “Lavellan, as I understand it, none of this would be here without you. I can’t pretend this will be pleasant. But after everything you’ve survived, I can’t imagine the Winter Palace being the thing to stop you. Just know that we’ll be here for you, helping Leliana spread nasty rumours about anyone and everyone who slights you.”

 “…Thank you,” Lavellan said quietly. “That means a lot to me.”

 “Now, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, lowering himself and flourishing his hand in a mocking half-bow. “What do you say we leave this frostbitten balustrade and go somewhere warmer?”

 Lavellan laughed and began to walk towards the stairs, as the snow flurried on across the mountains beyond.


	5. Chapter 5

Dorian winced in the brightness of the early morning sun as he arrived at the training yard, five minutes late. The Rivaini White he'd split with Varric over Wicked Grace after walking Lavellan back to his quarters had not been any kinder to his constitution than the red from the night before. He had been hoping to sneak in unnoticed, but Josephine waved him over in such an obvious way that Lavellan and the rest of his inner circle turned to look at him.

Most of them, at least. Cullen was at the other end of the yard running drills for soldiers, Leliana was likely running the Inquisition while they were all down here, and he could only imagine Sera's response when she'd been asked to participate in a courtly dance class. Lavellan was standing in the middle of the line, hands clasped stiffly behind his back.

“Oh, Sparkler, someone should have gotten an earlier night,” Varric laughed. The bastard didn't seem hungover at all. On the other hand, Dorian had finished Varric’s shot of the disgusting red spirit as well as his own after the dwarf had declared it _literally undrinkable_.

“This is actually entirely on purpose,” Dorian said as he strolled to join the end of the line. “ _The ideal Orlesian courter is nonchalant_ were your words, I believe, Vivienne – surely by arriving late, but not so late that I miss anything, I give the impression of being so busy and important that I have only just managed to fit you into my schedule, without quite lapsing into outright rudeness.”

“He's not wrong,” Vivienne mused, arching one of her brows. “Sadly, Dorian, over-explaining your alleged intentions has rather spoiled the effect.”

“Anyway,” Dorian said quickly, deciding he’d best end this discussion before Blackwall said anything in front of the rest of them. “I think we’ve held dear Josephine up enough with talk about me, and while I’m flattered, I’m certain she’d rather continue her briefing.”

“Thank you, Dorian,” Josephine said. She straightened and adjusted the sheets in her ledger. “And thank you to all of your for coming,” she said, smiling up and down the line. “I thought we would try something more... practical today.”

Dorian tried to focus in on her, despite the clanging of training swords ringing all too loudly in his head.

“As Skyhold does not have a ballroom, Commander Cullen has kindly given us the use of a corner of the training grounds for dance lessons,” Josephine continued, gesturing proudly around the square of dusty courtyard she'd had cleared of weapon racks and wooden mannequins.

“So...” Varric said, spreading his hands. “Any particular reason you needed so many of us for this, Ruffles?”

“There is actually a very good reason for that,” Josephine replied brightly. “The majority of Orlesian court dancing is in sets – the Inquisitor may be dancing in a pair, but there will be other pairs on the dance floor to keep in time with.”

“And although the Inquisitor is somewhat more... athletically inclined than my usual charges, it's still rather important to get used to the movement of the crowd,” Vivienne added, circling to join Josephine. “Making a wrong step is a faux pas. Making a wrong step on to the hem of an influential dowager's floor-length dress will tie the Inquisition's entire diplomatic staff up for the rest of the evening trying to make amends, and still end in a duel.”

Dorian bit his tongue on a comment about how he’d rather like to see that, actually.

“Duelling is also on the itinerary,” Josephine added quickly, looking to Lavellan with a nervous smile. “Though I expect it will... not be needed.”

Lavellan stared blankly at her. “...Let's hope not,” he replied.

“Anyway,” Josephine said quickly. “I’m going to line you up into pairs, and then we can practice some basic steps and sequences.”

She walked to the far end and sent The Iron Bull to stand opposite Vivienne.

“Are all of the dances for pairs?” Lavellan asked. “Most of the festival dances back home are… more communal.”

“All of the dances you’ll be participating in, my darling,” Vivienne replied, smiling as the hulking qunari awkwardly took his place opposite her. “There are show dances that might be choreographed for any number of people, but these are generally the purview of professional entertainers or members of the nobility who wish to show off a particular talent.”

“So, we shouldn’t expect the Inquisitor to be asked to dance for our entertainment?” Dorian asked.

“Not at court, no,” Lavellan replied flatly.

“I cannot imagine that accomplishing enough to compensate for the risk of it going wrong,” Josephine replied. Solas and Cole shuffled into position together. Maker, Dorian had forgotten he’d seen Cole in the line. Well, better Solas than him. It was difficult to imagine Cole moving, let alone dancing.

“If we send the Inquisitor, or anyone, to perform an Orlesian dance, they would be judged very harshly for any mistakes,” Josephine explained. She sent Lavellan to stand in the middle of the formation, and Cassandra shortly afterwards. The Seeker looked rather unhappy about the whole situation. Or, Dorian supposed, that could just have been her face. “If they performed a different dance – a dance in the Dalish tradition, for example – it would be seen as a statement. In that particular case, a sign of favour to Ambassador Brialla, which I would advise against committing to in such a public manner.”

Josephine paused, looking between Dorian, Varric and Blackwall. She motioned for Varric and Blackwall to join the line as a pair, then stepped up to Dorian.

“Dorian, will you demonstrate with me?” she asked. “I assume you are familiar with at least the basic steps.”

“I’m rather expensively acquainted with them, yes,” Dorian replied. Much as they sneered at the particularities of Orlesian frivolity, his parents had still paid whatever it took to ensure he couldn’t embarrass them. “Though you must understand that most of my experience ‘at court’, if you will, consists of standing by the drinks table making snide remarks.”

“That will have to do,” she replied. She set her ledger aside. “Maryden, please, music for a beginner’s basse-danse sequence?”

The bard began to strum her guitar, a repeating set of eight chords. Dorian remembered standing in an empty hall with seven other Magisters’ children listening to a not-dissimilar eight chords, and knew that they would mutate into something far more complicated in a few lessons’ time. Josephine led Dorian in front of the Inquisitor and turned towards the keep, so they were standing in a cross with Lavellan and Cassandra at the centre. With obstacles on every side of him, Dorian supposed was the intention.

“Dancing pairs in Orlais would generally be mixed-sex,” Josephine said. “Although if there are an uneven number of dancers, same-sex dancing is acceptable. We have… more men here presently, as you may have noticed. Men in mixed-sex pairings will typically lead, in other combinations it is up to the participants who leads the dance and who follows. Regardless, the partner who leads stands on the left to begin the dance.”

Josephine held her left hand up, and Dorian mirrored with his right. “Now, there will be dances where you need not even touch, but for the basse-danse touching the palms flat together is generally a safe position,” Josephine explained.

“Even if you’re dancing with a particularly scandalous individual?” Dorian asked with a grin.

“I’m afraid even pulling back to the fingertips won’t help if the individual is as scandalous as you suggest,” Josephine replied, demonstrating by lifting her palm. She began to move in time to the music. Her left foot forward and to the left, her right foot to meet the heel. Her right foot forward and to the right, her left foot to meet the heel.

“After all,” Josephine continued. “Even in the most conservative dance, one can still exchange longing gazes across the set.” Dorian mimicked her steps, slowly moving forward across the training yard. Four steps for four repeats. He had to stop himself from raising his arm to twirl her, knowing that this dance would eventually grow flourishes. They reversed the steps, back to where they started.

“So, what… would be a scandalous position?” Lavellan asked from behind them.

“Well…” Josephine started. She looked up at him, eyes apologetic. “Dorian, do you mind if I demonstrate?”

“Scandalise away, Ambassador Montilyet,” Dorian replied.

“Firstly, as I said it depends on who you are dancing with. But generally, the closer you dance, the closer you are suggested to be, whether romantically or in the sharing of secrets – the ballroom often offers a strange kind of privacy, given that one cannot easily follow to eavesdrop,” Josephine explained, looking over her shoulder to Lavellan. “A more intimate grip than the dance requires, for example…”

From where their palms were pressed, Josephine laced her fingers through Dorian’s, her neat nails pressed firmly against his knuckles while he kept his fingers spread. It reminded him of dancing with Magister Maevaris late on in the night, when she would insist that even if he wasn’t dancing with the _eligible respectables_ his family had chosen for him, he should at least enjoy himself. And she would lace her fingers through his in the same sisterly manner, and they would cut across the floor between sets.

“Is it more of a scandal if you’re left unrequited?” Lavellan laughed.

“One partner keeping their hand open does provide an ambiguity, if required,” Vivienne suggested. “Perhaps that the person with the tighter grip is merely a nervous dancer, or that the open-handed partner is out of time and needs a firmer hand to prevent them from dancing into the next set.”

“It would still be rather rude of me, wouldn’t it?” Dorian replied. He met Lavellan’s eyes and smiled crookedly as he closed his fingers over Josephine’s. The Inquisitor blinked nervously.

“One can also stand closer than necessary in dances that require the partners to face, or turn further than expected.” Josephine continued. Dorian took his eyes off Lavellan’s and turned back to watching her.

“For example, if one is supposed to turn at an angle to one’s partner as so,” Josephine said, tilting herself into a three-quarter turn. Dorian stepped to mimic her, laced hands still gripped to form a triangle. “But moves as so…” she took a further half-step, so that they would be almost be facing if he mirrored her again. “It has a similar suggestion of intimacy.”

“For all of the talk I’ve heard of Orlesian decadence, this seems rather… tame,” Lavellan said.

“Don’t worry Inquisitor, Ruffles has given me permission to teach you Rivaini bordello dancing once you’ve got the basics down,” Varric piped up.

“I have not!” Josephine exclaimed. She released Dorian’s hand and turned to face the rest of the dancers, smoothing her outfit as Varric stifled a laugh.

“Light flirtation and a hint of risqué scandal are tools used by most courtiers, as appropriate to the court and the individual,” Josephine explained. “But… do think carefully about it, as an outsider. Leliana and I will provide further guidance when we have a better idea of the guest list.”

“ _Very_ carefully,” Vivienne added. “Keeping to the basics shall not raise you, my dear, but more importantly it will not shame you. For your first appearance at court, failing to make an impression is preferable to leaving a bad taste.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be getting a second chance if I don’t make an impression,” Lavellan sighed. He raised his hand, and gestured for Cassandra to join him. “So I suppose we should get started.”

Josephine nodded, and turned back to face the keep. Dorian raised his palm to meet hers, and the eight chords started up again. Dorian glanced over his shoulder at the Inquisitor. His arm raised, mouth tight in concentration.

Left, and follow. Right, and follow. The rabble and crashing of the soldiers’ training replacing the buzzing chatter of the ballroom, their feet shuffled quietly across the yard.


	6. Chapter 6

“And the three individuals I already spoke to you about?” Dorian asked, trying to get some grip on Leliana's expression beneath her hood. She turned suddenly, alert, as the Inquisitor emerged from the spiral staircase and into the tight corridor at the top of the spire that Dorian had found himself housed in. Lavellan froze, one hand resting on the banister and the other clutching a book, surprised eyes darting between them.

“I didn’t realise you were busy,” Lavellan said quickly. “I’ll come back later.”

“Hang on,” Dorian replied. “I believe your spymaster is almost finished with me.”

Leliana’s shadowy eyes swung back to Dorian. “We have been following your leads. I believe we will be making a decision on how to pursue them soon.” She handed back Dorian’s papers, minus what he’d tried to scrounge about Calpernia for her, and turned to leave, nodding at the Inquisitor as she passed.

“I had hoped for a break after this morning’s dance lesson, but apparently I’m rather in demand today,” Dorian said as the spymaster’s footsteps slowly echoed down the tower. Or as she doubled back to eavesdrop on the Venatori poison he was dripping into the Inquisitor’s ear despite the intelligence he appeared to be providing, he supposed. He folded his arms and leaned against the doorway to his quarters. “Now, what petty errand brings the Inquisitor to my door this time? I know you couldn’t possibly be taking a rest, it wouldn’t be seemly.”

“I’m actually supposed to be studying heraldry this evening,” Lavellan said, smiling awkwardly and holding up the book. “If it wasn’t too much of an imposition, I thought you might help me.”

Had they been in the plausibly deniable library, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He didn’t want to play games with the Inquisitor. But as much as he joked about it, he knew how it might look. The Inquisitor taking his own secret counsel with someone of Dorian’s reputation, both the true parts and the false parts.

“I am of course at your absolute command,” Dorian replied, smirking to hide his caution. “But really, Inquisitor, after all that talk of _scandalous positions_ this morning, you’re visiting the quarters of a notorious Tevinter decadent for a private lesson. What _will_ people say?”

Lavellan’s anxious energy dissipated, expression retreating into a resting frown. He shrugged. “I’m already here, Dorian. If we’re to play the Grand Game at Skyhold too, they’ll already be talking.”

Dorian imagined that Lavellan knew what he was doing, was well aware that he was flirting horrendously with Dorian and that people might notice. If he didn’t, Dorian knew he should deal with it for the sake of the latter. But he wasn’t ready to disabuse himself of the fantasy of the former just yet.

“I suppose you might as well come in, then,” Dorian replied. He stood aside and gestured through the doorway to his quarters. “You may even learn something.”

“How very generous of you,” Lavellan said, eyebrow raised. He passed into the room, and Dorian closed the door behind them.

“I’m not sure whether I should be insulted that they decided I should sleep in the tower,” Dorian commented, talking through his nerves as Lavellan glanced around the cramped, cluttered room.

“Yes, I can definitely imagine you in the barracks instead,” Lavellan replied, casually sitting on the edge of Dorian’s bed. It was no bigger than one of the soldiers’ bunks, and piled with enough colourful blankets to make sleeping through the tower’s night-time drafts tolerable.

“Oh certainly, I’m not complaining about having my own quarters,” Dorian continued, stepping over a stack of books to grab the chair from his study desk. “I’m certain that the more superstitious of our soldiers are just as glad of that as I am. But really, it’s as if someone heard of the white spires of Minrathous and got rather the wrong idea about how I might like to be kept. I’m not a bird.”

“And how might you like to be kept?” Lavellan asked, suddenly taking a great interest in running his fingers along the lettering on the cover of his book.

“Lavishly, of course,” Dorian replied. He found a space in the floor for the chair, and sat down opposite Lavellan. “I should like a more comfortable bed, a personal library, and a larger window, preferably with glass in it this time.” He motioned to the tall, thin archer’s slit in the wall. “This is absolutely useless for reading. I am faced with covering it and having no light at all, or leaving it as so and suffering the breeze. I expect I shall burn the entire keep down with candles at this rate.”

“So you don’t want me to ask Harritt to put a plank over it?” Lavellan replied, trying and failing to hide his glint of amusement.

“I’ll consider it and let you know.” Dorian said, resting his chin against his curled fingers. “Now, what was it Vivienne dragged you off to learn after your dance lesson?”

“Etiquette,” Lavellan replied. “Did you know that thirty people died in a fire at a ball in Val Blanc during the reign of Emperor Judicael II because none of the nobles wanted to be seen to be the first to leave the party?”

“Ah, burning to death in all of your finery, another grand Orlesian pastime,” Dorian replied. “I hope dear Vivienne doesn’t intend for you to partake in this one.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I’ll be taking a step back if Leliana’s spies suggest that’s going to be one of the activities,” Lavellan replied. He turned the book over in his hands and sighed. “Vivienne says I’m picking things up rather quickly, but I’m not sure whether to believe her. I think she’s trying to be encouraging after yesterday.”

“I don’t think you’re doing quite as badly as you think,” Dorian said. “I saw you dance this morning, you acquitted yourself rather well.”

“I enjoyed myself more than I expected,” Lavellan said. His eyes fell to the book. Dorian read the cover at an angle – a College of Heralds’ arms registry, presumably vetted by Leliana and Josephine to ensure there were no amusingly out of date pre-civil war land attributions.

“Sadly, Inquisitor, no matter how entertaining I may be, memorising Orlesian heraldry is destined to be a rather dry affair,” Dorian said. “At the very least, I can offer you a glass of wine.”

“I’m sure wine tasting is somewhere on Josephine’s syllabus,” Lavellan replied, his smile mischievous.

Dorian swung his legs over the side of his chair and strolled to the chest of drawers, swiping the wine glasses that rested on top of them.

“Dorian, are those from the tavern?” Lavellan laughed.

“Yes, I’m sure Leliana spotted them too and will be sending agents in the night to reclaim them,” Dorian replied. “I’ve had a bottle of Tevinter Red rattling around my quarters since we arrived at Skyhold,” he continued, pulling out the drawer where he kept the decent alcohol. One glass, this time. He would rather not get embarrassingly drunk in front of the Inquisitor. “I was saving it for a special occasion, but I will settle for not drinking it alone.”

Lavellan took the glass from Dorian’s hand carefully, fingers brushing. Lavellan smiled privately, but said nothing. Dorian lowered himself down next to the Inquisitor on the bed, as the Inquisitor flicked past the index to the first page of illustrated crests.

“I think I’ve seen this one before,” Lavellan said, carefully pointing at one of the coats of arms as he sipped his wine. A gold lion on a purple shield.

“You probably have,” Dorian replied. “This is the Valmont coat of arms, the crest of the Empress’ family.” His finger moved across the page, finding another shield. Quartered green and yellow, with a bronze chevalier crouching between two bronze beasts. Dorian found it to be a rather gaudy crest, even by the standards of Orlesian heraldry. “This is the de Chalons coat of arms, Duke Gaspard’s family. At the very least I suppose you should remember these, anyone wearing the colours or symbols is telling you rather obviously whose side they’re on.”

“So, will your family be in here?” Lavellan asked.

“Possibly,” Dorian replied, finding himself frowning at the thought of them. “Tevinter has its own heraldic college, but I expect this will still list some of the more powerful families outside of the Orlesian system. From Ferelden and the Free Marches, and so on. I suppose it depends how important my father cared to make himself look to outsiders.”

Dorian took a long drink of wine as he pulled the book across to his lap and turned to the next page. “I did once have a rather handsomely decorated genealogy chart of my own extended family, with portraits and such. I left it behind, however.”

He didn’t tell Lavellan it was one of the many objects he didn’t have the opportunity to retrieve from his family home when he fled. He supposed he’d have left it, anyway. He was certain his father would have had more use for it. A portrait of the Dorian Pavus he’d intended to have as an heir, unstained by the disappointing reality of the son he’d ended up with.

“You seem like you regret it,” Lavellan said, green eyes watching him carefully.

“I wouldn’t have had a use for it in the South,” Dorian said dismissively, turning another page. “The Dalish don’t have heraldry, do they?” he added quickly, partially because he was curious and partially to say _anything_ before Lavellan could make another attempt at an emotionally honest question.

“No, not really,” he replied. “Every clan has different banners for their aravel, but they’re… well, for the aravel. You wouldn’t pass them down one family line. I suppose it would be closer to the way some of the settlements we’ve visited have banners.”

“I suppose Orlesians use their heraldry for both,” Dorian explained. “Some of the symbols you’ll see on the shields refer to their territories, the way a Tevinter coat of arms might refer to the family’s historical magical innovations. And some Orlesian territories use family banners as their flags.”

Lavellan leaned in closer, shoulder pressing against Dorian’s as he squinted at the book. Dorian turned the pages and explained what he remembered, and found even his head spinning under the dreadful minutiae as the night closed in.

“Truthfully, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, when the time finally came to close the book over. “When Vivienne claims she remembers all of these, I think she’s lying. Nobody outside of the College of Heralds itself has any use for distinguishing between the near-identical crests of separate bastard lines each granted minor titles by their fathers a century ago.”

“You’re probably right,” Lavellan replied. He drained his glass and got to his feet, dangling the book from his fingertips as he stood. He circled Dorian’s room, laughing tipsily as one of the candles snuffed out, casting the room into darkness.

Neither of them said anything for a while. The faint squawking of Leliana’s crows drifted across the courtyard.

“I suppose I shouldn’t keep you too late,” Dorian said. “I imagine that you have to wake up at some ridiculous hour to lounge on the pedestal at the morning chant while pilgrims kiss your hands and feet.”

Lavellan snorted and roamed back towards the door, neatly returning his empty glass to the top of the chest of drawers. “I’m having a check-in about our troop movements with Cullen, actually,” Lavellan replied. “But I suppose he might kiss my hands and feet if I ask him nicely enough.”

Dorian chuckled as he stood to open the door. Lavellan’s soft mouth curved into a smile, barely perceptible in the room’s dimness. “Goodnight, Dorian.”

He left.

Dorian put the room back together. The chair back under the desk, the bed re-made even though it was still fairly neat. Dorian put his face to the thin stone window, gently tickled by the breeze. In the low flicker of the guards’ torches, he watched Lavellan cross the courtyard and disappear into the keep.


	7. Chapter 7

Dorian could tell that Mother Giselle was trying to get his attention. The way she’d find herself _accidentally_ standing in the way of his usual path to and from the library, her mournful eyes flitting away after having obviously been looking out for him. Well, he had dodged her the past few days and he wasn’t going to stop now. He strode past her at a distance, towards the gaudy throne at the far end of the hallway.

Not that Dorian wasn’t curious about what she could possibly want him for. It was no secret that he made the Southern Chantry types uncomfortable. _We were wondering, could you publicly denounce the Black Divine as a representative of your people?_ Perhaps he’d indulge her the next time he was bored. But he’d woken to another summon from Josephine, and supposed that it would throw her entire meticulously planned day into disarray if he hurled her note in the fire and spent the day heckling the soldiers and gambling instead.

That, and he could only assume it was something to do with Lavellan and the Winter Palace. Dorian assumed nothing terribly disastrous could have happened overnight, but he still felt a rather embarrassing knot of worry tugging at him.

He swung open the heavy wooden door to Josephine’s reception room and strode through.

“—please assure the Bann we will see to his request,” Josephine was saying, flourishing a sealed letter towards one of her messengers. As the messenger slipped past him, Josephine raised her head.

“Ah, Dorian, thank you for coming,” she said, smiling brightly.

She propped her clasped hands on her desk. The candle on her ledger was melted down to a wax lump, and her desk was scattered with white squares of paper. Dorian raised an eyebrow.

“Well, I see something has been keeping you awake,” he said.

Josephine reached to tidy the papers closest to her. “I… need your help,” she said.

“Yes, clearly,” Dorian chuckled, crossing to sit in the ornate wooden chair across from her. The vastness of the scrap pile seemed to grow as he approached. There were scrunched up balls of paper peppering the floor and shelves behind her. “Whatever have you gotten yourself into, Lady Montilyet?”

Josephine looked at him very seriously. “I have been thinking about what the Inquisitor said yesterday,” she said. “About how he will not have a second chance if he does not make a good impression at the Winter Palace.”

Dorian straightened. “Yes, I recall,” he replied neutrally. “Is there a problem?”

“Not a problem, per se. At least, not a new one.” Josephine continued. An amused flash of her teeth. “I thought back my own debut at court. I went to a girls' finishing school in Orlais, and our formal dinners were very competitive. I was barely scrutinised at my first court, by comparison.” She spread her hands. “So, I was considering how we might create a gentler introduction for the Inquisitor – give him a chance to practice what he is learning without the same potential to fail.”

“Please tell me you aren't considering sending him to a debutante ball,” Dorian replied. He recalled being dragged to one such occasion by his family. The young lady in question - clearly from a talented enough magical family for his father to bother putting in an appearance at her introduction to court - grimacing from under a dozen elaborate layers of ruffled silk and tulle, far more in the Orlesian fashion than anyone present would care to admit it had been borrowed from.

On being presented to her, Dorian had told her that her dress looked like the cornice in the Magisterium debate chamber. He remembered her father being strangely pleased with the comment, while she had glared through her fixed grin.

“I… did think about it,” Josephine said shiftily. “But it is the wrong time of year.”

She straightened, and clapped her hands together.

“I thought that, instead, we might arrange a mock-salon,” Josephine said. “Where the Inquisitor will have the comfort of knowing he is surrounded only by his trusted companions, while being able to practice speaking to the role they are playing.”

“I am unfortunately familiar with the concept,” Dorian replied, leaning back in his chair. “Or at least, tea parties with the other Magisters’ sons that would be pored over in excruciating detail afterwards.” His eyes fell to her papers. “So these are – what, menus?”

Josephine smiled tightly. “They are… notes for the fictional court attendees the Inquisitor’s companions will be playing. It... got more complicated the more I thought about it. In reality, the history and connections between different individuals and factions within court can be... intricate, and fabricating them will take a lot of time and effort.”

Saying nothing, Dorian swiped one of the notes, leaning back to dodge Josephine's grabbing hands as she lunged across the desk to take it back from him.

“Dorian!” she yelped. “They’re not finished!” He stood, and strolled across the rug. Josephine's ledger clattered to the ground as she leapt out of her chair to chase him.

“Recent dwarvern exile betrayed by one of their two noble siblings, and unsure which. Seeking new alliances above ground, with mining connections on offer.” Dorian lowered the sheaf of paper and leaned against the fireplace. “Oh Josephine, this is delicious. Did Varric help you come up with these?”

Josephine came to a halt a few steps away from him, catlike eyes narrowed. “I... may have taken some inspiration from his work for some of the roles. I intend to consult some of our companions for accuracy.”

Dorian moved his arm as if to raise the paper out of her reach, but let her grab it from him. “I'm wondering why you've come to me for help, then,” he said.

Josephine tucked the note back into her pocket. “You cannot tell the Inquisitor about this,” she said, pointing at him for emphasis. “About what I am about to ask you, or the… court secrets you have already uncovered.”

“For seeing how this turns out, Josephine, you have my word,” Dorian replied, smiling broadly. “What have you decided I should pretend to be? Someone exceedingly handsome and exceedingly dangerous, no doubt.”

“As someone familiar with the manners, I thought you should play one of the higher-ranking nobles in attendance,” Josephine replied, pacing back to her desk. “But it’s not your character that I need to ask your advice on.”

Dorian followed, returning to the seat opposite her.

“Although this is a practice, the Inquisitor will need to learn how to watch for danger,” Josephine sighed. “At the Winter Palace, he will be hunting one of Corypheus’ spies while he navigates the Grand Game.” As she spoke, she shuffled a half-dozen cards into a stack and placed it neatly in front of him. “I need you to help me choose which character should be the Venatori agent, and help me come up with any clues it might be useful for the Inquisitor to watch for.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t simply asked me to play them,” Dorian said, voice harder than he intended. He took the stack of cards from the table.

“There are a few reasons for that,” Josephine replied. A bard, a chevalier, a recently widowed noble. “Firstly, I have written a lot of your character’s backstory and it would not make sense. They have other secrets I will be asking you to conceal, and the additional element of him being a spy would distract from them. And secondly.” He glanced up at her. Josephine’s eyes wavered like the flame of a candle. “I know people have said that about you. You shrug, but it is a hurtful accusation when you have done so much for the Inquisition. I would not have it whispered that I gave you such a role as a passive-aggressive statement of distrust.”

Dorian lowered his eyes to the cards, then back to Josephine. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I… appreciate that,” he said quietly. He shuffled the cards, and pressed the stack back towards her. “Take the top card, and make them the agent.”

Josephine took the card, and looked at him carefully.

“It could be any of them,” he replied, folding his arms. “Most people work with the Venatori because they don’t feel they have as much power as they deserve. Others…” He rubbed the base of his empty signet ring finger. “The ones who work directly with Corypheus have likely been promised something, and what that something is doesn’t need to be possible. Curing the blight, raising the dead, or indeed turning the clock back on an entire country. What joins all of them, true Venatori or no, is that they are all willing to crush lesser people beneath them to fix this great mistake of fate.”

Josephine’s quill made a few small, careful etches on the paper.

“…A sadly not uncommon trait in the nobility,” she said.

Before she could say any more, the door to the main keep banged open. Josephine almost dropped her quill in fright. Dorian turned in his chair to see Cullen and Leliana, with Lavellan slamming the door behind them.

“Inquisitor, I can get a message to my agents near Wycome quicker than you will be able to ride there,” Leliana was saying. This argument, apparently, had barely made it out of public view and certainly wasn’t going to make it into the War Room. “A rift so close to Redcliffe, however, requires your personal attention.”

Lavellan’s palm spread across the door, mark glittering with anger. Dorian stood, pushing his chair back across the stone floor. Lavellan’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply, eyes still on Leliana, forcing the mark to calm down.

“I can’t abandon my clan,” he spat.

“You aren’t abandoning anyone,” Cullen said firmly, raising a hand. “The Inquisition will give them all the help they need. You don’t need to be there in person.”

“…I can see that I don’t have a choice, then,” Lavellan said bitterly. He lowered his hand, fist clenched. Dorian felt as if he shouldn’t be seeing him like this, accidentally intruding upon his private anger.

“I should, ah, leave,” Dorian said, smiling politely at Josephine, who was quickly piling her notes into her drawer in case Lavellan crossed the room. “We’ll finish this another time, Ambassador.”

Lavellan didn’t look over, kept staring at Leliana. But he held up a hand as Dorian hurried for the door. “Tell the others to get themselves ready to travel,” he said, the voice of his friend disappearing behind the commanding tone of the Inquisitor. “We’re setting off for the Hinterlands in the afternoon.”


	8. Chapter 8

The Inquisitor was wearing his travelling leathers the next time Dorian saw him, already astride his horse. He wore a bandage over the hand of his left elbow-length glove, hiding where the mark had repeatedly burned through it. By the time Dorian had spent enough time around him to notice, Lavellan had given up on repairing it, the uncovered hole ringed by the tatty fragments of mis-matched cloth and leather patches.

“This better be a big rift, Dandelion,” Varric had called. “Think of all the dance lessons you’ll be missing for this.”

“Lady Montilyet has actually charged me with continuing the Inquisitor’s various lessons while we’re afield,” Vivienne piped up, letting or forcing Iron Bull to help her up into her saddle.

Lavellan still wasn’t saying much. His brows were tight and his face serious, still wearing the hard mask of the Inquisitor. “Are we ready, then?” he asked.

When nobody objected, he nudged his horse into a trot, Cassandra riding beside him.

Dorian cringed when he saw the throngs of people lining the path between the courtyard and the gate. The amount of fanfare the Inquisitor's followers still managed to whip up whenever he arrived or left continued to be somewhat awkward for everyone involved. Lavellan kept his head down while Cassandra guided him through the crowd. Dorian supposed that in her previous occupation Cassandra, despite her apparent short temper, must have acquired some talent for giving polite placations to the people who came to weep, prostrate themselves and hold up their children for the Southern Divine's blessing while still keeping the procession moving at a decent pace.

Cullen, Leliana and Josephine stood by the gates, grim-faced. Leliana leaned forward to exchange a few words with the Inquisitor, but between the distance and the noise Dorian couldn't make out what either of them were saying. He waved lazily at Josephine as he passed, the ambassador's fingers gripped so tightly on her ledger that her knuckles had turned beige.

“Try not to wreck the place while we're gone, will you?” he said with a wink. Josephine laughed nervously.

“No promises,” Cullen replied.

Dorian laughed and rode onwards. As their little group cleared the bridge, the sky and snow stretched out before them. They left the safety and rabble of Skyhold behind, the wind turning chill without the keep’s walls to protect them.

“I'll take point,” Lavellan said from the front. Before Cassandra could finish making her grunt of objection, he had pulled his faded red scarf over his nose and mouth and cantered on ahead.

Dorian supposed he had a choice. He could ride back here, gazing tragically at the moody figure in the distance, tuning out the laughter and tale-swapping of his companions and wringing his hands like a sailor’s wife staring out at the sea. Or he could satisfy his nosiness and find out what in Thedas that argument had been about. He circled around the outside of the group, keeping his eyes forward as he passed Blackwall. Dorian hadn't spoken to him since he'd made an ass of himself, and he wasn't intending to as long as the Warden kept pulling that _we need to talk, son_ expression.

Dorian dropped in next to Cassandra, who barely tried and ultimately failed to hide the disgust on her face. Dorian flinched, but quickly covered with a smile. After what Josephine had said to him this morning, he had briefly let the fact that not everybody trusted him leave his mind.

“What do you want, Dorian?” she asked, exasperated.

“I just thought you'd be happier if our dear leader wasn't taking point by himself,” Dorian replied breezily.

She eyed him suspiciously. “How kind of you to come with such a practical interest, instead of more nonsense.”

“Harsh words, Seeker,” he replied. “Would you say that I irritate you more or less than Varric does?”

She glared, and then sighed. “You are both valued members of the Inquisition,” she said through gritted teeth, conjuring in Dorian's mind the image of Josephine trying to teach her not to be rude to allies that got on her nerves. Leliana imploring her not to punch a particularly annoying petitioner to the Southern Divine in the mouth when it would be far more effective to smile as they left and stab them later.

“ _So_ charming of you to say so, Cassandra,” Dorian replied. “Anyway, I shall leave you in peace, as I'm sure we both want.”

He tugged the reins of his horse and left Cassandra behind, closing the distance between himself and Lavellan. The elf didn't seem to notice him approach, still staring grimly forward with that ragged scarf pulled over his face. He looked like a particularly beautiful highwayman, his short blonde hair tousled by the wind.

Dorian had occasionally had romance novel fantasies of being waylaid and kidnapped by such a figure while staring out of the window of his family's carriage, trundling to or from the country home of one of his father's political sponsors. After debating whether to put him up for ransom, the bandit king would become enchanted by such a pretty, quick-witted and powerful creature, and they would come together to change Tevinter forever, etcetera.

The carriage rides, and the fantasies, stopped when his presence as a representative of his father's legacy became more of a liability than an asset. The great shame of House Pavus, the end of his family branch.

“Are you in the mood for some witty repartee, or are you quite enjoying staring broodily into the distance?” Dorian asked, wearing a smile. Lavellan quietly turned his head, and reached to lower his scarf. Dorian had expected his face to be pressed into some sort of snarl, but he looked… well, he looked _sad_.

“I could probably do with some company,” Lavellan replied, offering a limp smile.

They rode in silence for a moment, Dorian's tongue feeling heavy. “I suppose you don't have such heated arguments with your spymaster every morning?” he asked.

Lavellan shook his head, mouth softening.

“Now, if you would rather think about literally anything else, I can rattle off lewd, amusing tales of my college days in Tevinter from now until nightfall,” Dorian said. He stopped to gather himself, glancing at Lavellan. “Or, you can... tell me what's on your mind.”

Lavellan lowered his eyes. The horses clomped through the snow, the mountains towering on either side. “We received a letter from my clan this morning,” he said quietly. “They’re being stalked by bandits. Leliana is suspicious – my people aren’t exactly known for their wealth, so for the same group to pursue them for weeks is... strange.”

“And you want to go to them,” Dorian said.

Lavellan nodded, fidgeted with his grip on the reins. “I know it's... not practical of me,” he said. “Leliana isn't wrong. It's far away, and her birds are faster. She could have an agent in place by this afternoon, and I wouldn't be there for weeks. That's why Keeper Istimaethorial asked for... my Inquisition's help, not mine.”

“But?” Dorian replied.

Lavellan's hands settled, his fists clenching. “But I should be there. Until the Conclave, this was the life I had pledged myself to. Protecting our clan, healing our wounded. To lose a First…” He furrowed his brows. “If I had simply died, it would have been a tragedy. Instead, the Conclave made me into a ghost. I can see my duties to my people, but I can’t _do_ anything to keep them.”

Dorian could feel his face soften, watching Lavellan ride with his shoulders so tense they almost touched his pointed ears.

“Lavellan,” Dorian said. He knew he should say something. Something reassuring, perhaps. But he didn’t know what. He was far better at being drunk and amusing than he was at being honest. When Dorian looked at Lavellan, he saw a mirror of his own bloody pride, his own bloody grief. Wishing he could have stayed behind to be there for Felix when he died, even knowing he’d left because the Inquisition needed his warning and he wouldn’t have made it in time with Felix in tow. “I wish you lived in a kinder world. One that wasn’t putting you in this position. Where Corypheus summered in a beach house, perhaps, and you could go back to your people while he and the other decrepit walking corpses enjoyed the season. Or where the rest of us didn’t need you at all, and you could have lived your life roaming idly through forests in the dappled spring light, or any of those other rather romantic images you seem to conjure when you tell me about your clan.”

Dorian turned his eyes back to the road, afraid he was beginning to seem far too emotional. “In this rather crueller world you find yourself in, however,” he said. “I’m rather selfishly glad that we have you. Your people will understand that keeping the world from being turned into a lovely paste by an ancient Darkspawn is something you do for them, too.”

“You know,” Lavellan said quietly. “When my clan first made contact with the Inquisition, I wanted to ask them to join us. Keeper Istimaethoriel refused my request before I could ask it – the clan would continue to live freely rather than come to Haven,” he said. “I was so afraid that they would be in danger, and then after what happened at Haven I was… relieved. I understood the wisdom of what she’d done, both in preserving our ways and preserving their lives.”

Dorian watched from the corner of his eye as Lavellan took a ragged breath.

“I miss them, Dorian,” Lavellan murmured. “I miss them, and there’s nothing I can do for them. There are people I said my farewells to before I left for the Conclave that I will never see again. To let Leliana handle this… it feels like I’m abandoning my responsibility to them. How can I forgive myself if anything happens, if I could have done more and didn’t?”

If they had been anywhere more private, Dorian would have reached for him. Put a hand on his shoulder, for as long as he could risk without upsetting his horse.

“I don’t know,” Dorian replied, mouth flat. Thinking of his cheery goodbye to Felix, his empty promise that he’d return with the Inquisition. But things hadn’t turned out that way. “Assuming we survive this, I think we’ll have a lot of reasons to ask that question.”

Dorian lifted his head towards Lavellan, who was nodding silently.

“But I know this, Inquisitor,” Dorian said. “One person here has personally closed the hole in the sky, stopped the red templars, and put up with my dreadfully dull heraldry lessons. That’s you, by the way.” Dorian tried to smile, but faltered. Tried to joke, but didn’t. “So please don’t say you’re not doing enough, Lavellan. Sometimes, you seem like you’re going to shred yourself into teeny tiny pieces trying to fix the world.” He smiled now, grimly. “To play to your worst habits, I’d like you to know I’d be rather upset if that happened.”

The corner of Lavellan’s mouth twitched, something approaching a quiet smile. “We wouldn’t want that.”

“Your problem, Inquisitor,” Dorian continued quickly, easing himself back into a jovial tone before he said something foolish or saccharine. “Is that you’re far too useful. You should try being a selfish, purely ornamental layabout such as myself sometime, life is far less stressful when nobody needs you.”

Lavellan turned to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a horn. The call to stop to give the horses a rest. Lavellan lowered his head, apparently rather flustered, and pulled the scarf back over his nose and mouth. His green eyes met Dorian’s, and he turned away.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time they stopped, they'd ridden within sight of Lake Calenhad. Exhausted from the trek through the mountains, most of their party had retired early. Tiny clumps of frost drifted across the lake's vast skin, dark shapes against still reflections of the pink sunset sky. They looked, Dorian thought, like pond scum. He took another swig of his wine. He knew it was too damn cold to be out here, but he couldn’t bring himself to turn in yet. Instead, he sat under a tree that looked out across the distant lake, legs draped over the roots and a book spread out on his lap.

Given how dire the Inquisition’s library could be about matters of arcane interest, he had been wary of bringing any of the more useful tomes he was using for his research on the road, where they were liable to have their pages nibbled by rats, their spines scorched by demonfire, and then finally be hurled into a bog in an attempt to distract the undead.

Not that he was still sore about what had happened to the Liber Ivonis. It was only _very difficult_ to get hold of a decent copy outside of Tevinter.

Dorian sighed. He had come out here to read cheap paperbacks and drink until it got too dark to read, not mourn lost books, and he was damn well going to get on with it. He flicked back to where he’d left off.

“Did you borrow that from Cassandra?” a voice asked.

Dorian looked up with a jump. Lavellan was lounging against a tree, hidden in the low light. He laughed, the bastard. “I thought she hadn’t finished that one,” Lavellan continued, smiling innocently as he crossed to sit next to Dorian.

“Well, I’m glad to see you’re in a better mood this evening,” Dorian said. He paused, debating whether to save face in front of the Inquisitor by hiding the fact that he was reading a romance novel. But he needed to know. He flourished the cover of _To Catch a Heart_. “Please tell me Cassandra is genuinely reading this.”

“Well, the cover is the same colour,” Lavellan admitted, leaning in for a closer look.

“Red and gold apparently convey romance and luxury to the discerning reader,” Dorian replied.

“No, it’s definitely this one,” Lavellan said, frowning so terribly seriously as he squinted at the book. Dorian found himself smiling. “She seemed very embarrassed that I caught her reading it,” Lavellan continued. “I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

“She may murder you for this,” Dorian replied.

Lavellan stretched out against the tree, almost lying down, his head at about the level of Dorian’s shoulder. Dorian offered the Inquisitor the bottle of wine, which he took a mouthful from.

“I thought it might give you something in common,” Lavellan said.

“You want me to be _friends_ with Seeker Pentaghast?” Dorian asked, face contorting in mock offence.

“She’s not so bad, when you get to know her,” Lavellan replied.

Dorian gave Lavellan a pointed look, his memory of Cassandra’s disgust puncturing the warm atmosphere. “How long did it take for her to decide you weren’t a heretic?”

Lavellan sat up a little. “A few months, at least,” he replied. He pensively clung to the wine bottle, slowly turning it in his fingers.

“So, tell me,” Dorian said, holding the book up to catch Lavellan’s attention. “I assume Cassandra told you what this is. What would be the Dalish equivalent? You don’t have commercial publishing, obviously.”

“Well, we tell each other stories out loud,” Lavellan said with a shrug. “Some of them had grand, tragic romances in them. It wasn’t uncommon for people to make copies of their favourite stories by hand. And when we would meet other clans at larger gatherings, some of us would meet to trade stories.”

“Inquisitor, you’re giving me the impression that your clan was full of naughty teenagers swapping dirty stories,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“It’s not _dirty_ , Dorian,” Lavellan laughed. “Stories are important, and some of those stories had… relationships in them, and some didn’t.” He leaned back against the tree, eyes bright. “The Second of Clan Alathiel was an amazing storyteller. I would beg her to bring me copies of her work the few times a year I saw her.”

Dorian wanted to say so much to him. Ask if stories were all he exchanged at these meetings. To pry into his youth to discover if there had been someone there who played the same role Rilenius had played for him. Find out his secret shames and selfish desires.

“You really must show me your treasure trove of raunchy literature sometime,” Dorian said.

“In keeping with my people’s traditions, it would be best if I read it aloud,” Lavellan replied, gazing irritatingly innocently out towards the lake.

“Will you be sharing it with everyone, or shall I be receiving a more intimate reading?” Dorian asked.

“Generally, I would only read to you alone if I was courting you,” Lavellan said.

Dorian felt his face grow hot, and forced a laugh.

“Perhaps I’ll read it at the Winter Court,” Lavellan said quickly. His smile flickered, and he sighed. “I suppose I would have to get it back first,” he said.

Dorian took another swig of wine, trying to appear as casual as he could. “Ah. Because many of your belongings will still be with your clan.”

Lavellan nodded. Dorian paused, watching the Inquisitor’s gently melancholy expression, and offered him the wine. “Have you… heard from Leliana?” Dorian asked.

Lavellan propped the wine against the tree roots and reached into his jacket pocket, producing a wad of papers. A crisp white envelope fell into his lap as he rustled through them and unfurled a weather-bitten scroll.

“Leliana’s agent is on their way and should arrive tomorrow,” Lavellan read. “She’ll send me another update then.”

“And… how are you feeling?” Dorian asked. Lavellan folded the letter back up and stared at it.

“I’m doing better,” Lavellan replied. “I’m trying not to think about it.” He picked up the square envelope and pressed his mouth into a straight line.

They were somewhere more private now. Dorian reached out, and put his hand on Lavellan’s shoulder.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said quietly, the envelope dangling from his fingers. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Dorian’s heart caught in his throat. “Well, I suppose you should tell me them.”

Lavellan lifted his green eyes to meet Dorian’s, brow creased and mouth soft. He took a breath. “Mother Giselle gave me a… letter about you before we left this morning,” he said.

In an attempt to hide his embarrassment, Dorian snorted irritably and snatched the wine back. “Perhaps people wouldn’t pester you about me so much if you didn’t pass on everything they said,” he snapped. “Am I fun to gossip about, Inquisitor? I suppose I must be a rather appealing project to a perennial problem solver such as yourself.”

Lavellan’s face stayed calm. Dorian burned with shame. Lavellan, of all people, why was he trying to rile Lavellan up?

“It’s not gossip, Dorian,” Lavellan said. But the blank way he was looking at him. Anger, even, anger would be something. He just wanted him to react. Lavellan held out the letter. “Look, just – just read it, this will explain better than I can.”

Dorian snatched the outstretched envelope. And as he unfolded it, he felt the colour drain from his face. This seal, this handwriting. _Yours graciously, Magister Halward of House Pavus._

He crumpled it into a ball and considered setting it on fire. He uncrumpled it and read it again. He re-folded it, almost neatly. Lavellan watched him silently.

What could he say? He knew Lavellan had probably read the letter. To hear his father pleading _as one Andrastian to another_ , to see him drawing himself the injured party when he _knew_ what he’d done. Calling him _my son_ , _the boy_ , as if Dorian was still a child.

“You don’t have to decide now,” Lavellan said. “But as we’ll be in the area… I wanted you to be aware. If this is a trap, the Venatori may be looking out for you.”

When Dorian didn’t say anything, Lavellan stood and held a hand out neatly. The light was disappearing from behind him as the sun sank into the mountains. Dorian refused his hand, getting to his feet himself with book, wine and now letter tucked under his arm.

“I’ll tell his hireling to piss off in person,” Dorian snarled, and stalked back towards the camp.


	10. Chapter 10

They were still an hour from the Crossroads when the winter sun started to fall for the day, and Lavellan called that they were stopping to camp at the Inquisition's nearest travellers' outpost before the frost set in.

Dorian had spent the day at a distance, lingering at the end of the cavalcade. In theory, he had intended to think about his father's letter during the gentler but duller parts of the road around Lake Calenhad, with the ominous shadow of Ferelden's abandoned Circle Tower ticking past him like the hand of an enormous clock. Instead, he had finished one tatty paperback and started a second one.

The sharp corners of the abandoned letter pricked against his chest as he climbed down from his horse. Dorian told himself that if he'd thrown it out the night before, he could have forgotten about it by now, but wasn't quite persuasive enough to trick himself into believing that was true.

The outpost was nestled against one of the Hinterlands’ cliffs, to shield travellers from the elements. It had some basic amenities, kept decent by the Inquisition's soldiers – a hitching post for horses, a cache of supplies, a firepit and a store of wood, kindling and cooking utensils – but they would still be sleeping on the ground. Dorian was used to it by now, certainly, but doubted he would ever enjoy it. This campground was used so frequently that the ground beneath had melded into a muddy slurry from the frequent parade of boots and caravans.

Lavellan dismounted in one neat, fluid motion. Dorian could better picture him among the Dalish like this. Their serious-faced but warm-hearted First, bandaging their wounds with sturdy hands, and turning those same fingers to the pages of stories at night. Lavellan turned his face skyward, and Dorian followed his gaze towards the bird-scattered horizon. Wondering, as he assumed Lavellan was, if any of them were carrying a message.

_Dear Lavellan, everything is fine. Leliana’s people chased off the bandits bothering your clan, nobody was hurt, and they’re riding south to visit you. The rift at Redcliffe has closed on its own, Corypheus tripped over the hem of his robe and plunged to his death, the Orlesian civil war has ended and the ball at the Winter Court has been cancelled._

But Lavellan’s eyes hadn't had time to look skyward for long before they needed to turn to the camp rota. “Solas, Blackwall, it's your turn to look after the horses,” he called, elbow still resting on his saddlebag. “Sera and Iron Bull, you're putting up the tents.”

“Sera, whatever you're thinking,” Cassandra said. “Don't.”

Sera grumbled something about pegs and went to start unpacking.

“Cole and I will clear up, Varric and Vivienne have the night off...” Lavellan continued. He paused, and flicked his eyes towards Dorian with a limp smile. Oh, no. “And Dorian and Cassandra will cook.”

Dorian met Cassandra’s grim eyes, the scar tugging across her cheek. “Delightful,” he said. “I’ll light the fire.”

He strode over to the wood store as the camp broke into chatter from the others separating to go about their business.

“We don’t need your help,” Cassandra said flatly. Dorian looked up to see that Varric had seated himself by the extinguished firepit.

“I’m not here to help _you_ , Seeker,” Varric laughed. “I’m here to save everyone else from having to eat something the two of you cooked unsupervised.” He produced a bottle from his bag. “And I’ve even brought you a peace offering.”

Cassandra sighed, and Dorian crouched to pile wood into the pit, mouth twisted into a smile. “Varric, I have no idea why you’d doubt the culinary talents of two individuals who spent their childhoods surrounded by servants and their formative adulthoods in learning institutions that provided room and board.” Dorian flicked a spark into the pit, hoping the addition of magic would overcome the damp chill in the air.

“See, Sparkler, that’s your problem,” Varric said, gesturing as the fire flared to life. “Always with the roaring magical fires. The temperature’s too high.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m sorry that my magical abilities are so powerful they’re unsuitable for mundane uses,” he said. “Perhaps next time I need to use them to kill something, I’ll put them on a light simmer instead.” The fire did, indeed, blaze unnaturally bright.

“I didn’t realise you were a chef as well as an author, Varric,” Cassandra sniped. Dorian could hear the _snick_ of her blade as she began to chop vegetables. He grabbed the canister of cooking water from the ration case lying by her feet.

“I’d say I’m more of a critic,” Varric replied, spreading his hands.

“I feel that I would regret asking what you think my problem is,” she said.

“And yet, you’ve just invited him to do so,” Dorian said, trying to look as if he wasn’t smirking as he hung the cooking pot over the fire. Across from them, Vivienne was watching Cole and Lavellan assemble a small camp table.

“You’re too cautious, Seeker,” Varric replied, leaning back with his palms against the ground. “You overcook and underseason.”

Vivienne was beginning to put out cutlery. And then she continued to put out cutlery. Dorian met Lavellan’s gaze across the fire, and flicked a glance at the table. Lavellan flicked his eyebrows upwards. Dorian made a show of stifling a laugh.

Cassandra walked over to begin adding vegetables to the water in the pot. “What are they doing?” she murmured.

“Cassandra, I would think that you of all people would recognise this,” Dorian replied.

As Vivienne added the third fork, Cassandra made a disgusted noise with her throat. “I hated this.”

Suffering through more dining etiquette would hopefully keep Lavellan’s mind off things. As much as Dorian hoped that watching him would keep his own mind distracted.

“Was there anything you did enjoy?” Dorian asked. In theory, there was more to do, but as Varric had started shredding the dried herbs himself, Dorian instead draped himself across the ground by the firepit and got as comfortable as he could.

“I enjoyed learning history,” Cassandra replied. Her voice was as clipped as usual, but with its pointed edge dulled. “And heraldry. I liked knowing that there was more to the world.”

“I quite understand,” Dorian replied. Cassandra turned to bring more vegetables to the pot, and that hard glare returned as she caught him lounging. The Seeker sighed, then sat on the other side of Varric once she’d passed the vegetables on.

“One for the pot,” Varric said, dumping a wooden cup of red wine into the broth. “One for me.” And set a second wooden cup by his feet. “One for the pot, one for Cassandra.” He winked as he held a cup out to the Seeker, who rolled her eyes but took it. “One for the pot, and one for Sparkler.” Dorian smiled languidly as he took his own drink from the dwarf’s hand. Varric stayed standing over the pot, stirring gently.

Dorian’s eyes drifted back to Lavellan. He was sitting at the camp table now, dwarfed by the mass of silverware before him. Cole sat on the ground next to him, head raised to watch while his hat flopped over his eyes.

“Before I get too comfortable, I’m going to check that Vivienne isn’t tormenting our dear leader too harshly,” Dorian said, clambering to his feet.

Varric laughed. “That poor kid.”

Dorian left the pot and strode across the camp. Lavellan lifted his chin in greeting, eyes relieved. Dorian’s mouth twinkled into a smile. He still owed the Inquisitor words. About the letter, about what he'd said to him. But that could wait until Redcliffe. Tonight, he would be what he was best at being. A comfort, a frivolous diversion, that didn’t ask anything in return.

“I do hope you’re not here to be a distraction,” Vivienne sighed. “This trip will take a week out of the Inquisitor’s preparations for Halamshiral, and we still have a lot to cover.”

“Isn’t it proper to make a toast before the meal begins?” Dorian asked, gesturing at Vivienne with his cup and leaning on the camp table. It sank a little further into the mud. “Surely, we should prepare the Inquisitor for the event that he may be asked to say a few words.”

“Unlikely, but I suppose there’s no harm,” Vivienne replied. She turned to face Lavellan. “You are toasting with red wine. Which glass do you raise?”

Lavellan’s brow furrowed, and his eyes carefully skimmed between the glasses laid out on the table. Carefully, he reached a hand forward and lifted a round, wide-mouthed glass with a long stem.

“Correct,” Vivienne said. “Can you tell me _why_ this is the right glass?”

Lavellan shrugged loosely, his mouth curling into a dark smile as he raised his eyes. “Dorian keeps this type of glass in his room, and he prefers red.” Dorian’s chest fluttered, and he tried not to let it show in his face as Lavellan smirked up at him. Oh, he must know what he’s doing.

Vivienne smiled dryly. “It seems Josephine was right, you do serve an educational purpose.” She turned her eyes back to Lavellan, who smoothed his face into a mask of innocence. “Red wine needs a larger-mouthed glass to breathe. White wine is generally served in a taller, narrower glass, sparkling even narrower.”

“Dorian, could you demonstrate a toast for me?” Lavellan asked, eyes sliding back to him.

Dorian held his cup out towards Lavellan’s raised glass and cleared his throat. As much as he knew the Inquisitor was teasing him, he hadn’t been lying when he said someone might ask him to speak. “Thank you to our host for such a beautiful meal,” Dorian said, gesturing between Vivienne and the empty plates. His usual speaking trick of embarrassing his father with bluntness would likely not serve the Inquisitor in front of the Orlesian court. “May our futures be as pleasant as this evening.”

He bowed to clink his cup against the Inquisitor’s glass, and Lavellan mimicked drinking wine as Dorian took a real sip.

“If you are called to speak, I suggest you follow your companion’s example and keep your words brief,” Vivienne said. “Nobody has good memories of dinners delayed by hour-long speeches.”

“And on the subject, I suppose I should return to the kitchen,” Dorian said, taking a step back.

“Yes, please do,” Vivienne said. Lavellan smiled at Dorian as Vivienne gestured to dismiss him.

He sauntered back across the camp, Cassandra still staring into the pot. It had changed to a rather more edible red-brown colour than when he’d left it.

“Don’t fuss, Seeker,” Varric said, reclining in the warmth of the fire.

Cassandra continued to turn the ladle through the stew, wincing from the steam.

“Allow me,” Dorian said, offering his hand. Cassandra narrowed her eyes as she passed him the ladle’s long handle. “I’m rather used to dealing with the heat from my own spells,” he explained. “And you’ve barely touched the wine Varric so kindly poured for you.”

He waited until she was taking a polite sip before he spoke again. “The Inquisitor tells me we have similar taste in literature.” Cassandra almost choked.

She had just about regained her composure by the time Varric had stopped laughing, eyes still flashing with – well, on Cassandra everything looked like rage. “That man cannot keep a secret,” Cassandra sputtered.

“He said he thought it might be good for us to have something in common,” Dorian said innocently, continuing to slowly stir the pot.

“Did he now?” Cassandra said flatly.

“Do let me know if you need any recommendations,” Dorian replied.

Cassandra growled, but not angrily. Varric said nothing, but looked like he was taking mental notes. Dorian’s eyes followed the steam from the pot upwards, to where birds looped lazily against the orange sky.

_Dear Dorian, it’s Felix. The last letter was someone’s idea of a prank. I’ll be here in Redcliffe, right where you left me, waiting for you to tell me what you’ve been getting up to all these long months._


	11. Chapter 11

Dorian watched idly as more nosy heads appeared over the Redcliffe ramparts. The guards had asked to clear the area before Lavellan attracted a horde of demons by approaching the rift, but they couldn't stop people from wanting to watch the Herald of Andraste perform his _divine work_. At this distance, Dorian couldn't make out if anyone was wearing Tevinter fashion. If his family's retainer had come to see if he'd arrived with the Inquisition forces.

In the valley, the yawning green chasm in reality throbbed like a heart. Lavellan's mark - and the corresponding grimaces of pain that crossed his face - pulsed in time. A flag began to rise above the Redcliffe guard tower, their signal. Lavellan walked down the hill, flanked by Cassandra, and Dorian kept close.

"Inquisitor, what is the correct form of address for a duchess?" Vivienne asked.

"We're really going to do this now?" Lavellan replied flatly. The rift let out an air-searing groan as the anchor's proximity tore it open, green tendrils grasping for the ground.

"You need to be able to answer under pressure, my dear," Vivienne replied, keeping a breezy tone to her raised voice. "Until it becomes second nature."

Lavellan paused. The largest pool of green unfurled and kept unfurling, until the vast horned head of a pride demon rose into being.

"Your Ladyship," Lavellan called as he threw up a barrier.

"Your Grace," Vivienne corrected as she joined him.

Lavellan released the first strike, a volley of lightning that rippled throughout the wraiths, shades and otherwise that crawled out of the portals. It plinked off the demon's crackling skin like droplets of water.

“Is there a correct form of address for the Inquisitor?” Dorian asked, as a cluster of Sera’s arrows soared past them. “How shall he know if people are being rude to him?”

“I can tell when you’re being rude to me without the need for titles, Dorian,” Lavellan replied, half amused and half strained in concentration. He flattened his hand and dropped it quickly, and the shade approaching Cassandra collapsed as if it was a marionette with its strings cut.

“Your Lordship would be perfectly appropriate,” Vivienne replied. Her spectral blade shimmered, twinkling off of the gold-horned metal crown she wore. “Inquisitor or Lord Inquisitor also suitable.”

Iron Bull and Blackwall were doing their best to distract the pride demon, but it was too clever to be goaded. It kept coming towards them, its massive legs striding around the warriors that harried it.

“Good to know,” Lavellan breathed.

Iron Bull threw his chain around the creature's muscular thigh and yanked. The demon dropped one knee to the ground hard to keep itself from losing balance completely. An opening.

Lavellan had once told Dorian that he was surprised by how he fought. Dorian supposed it would have looked different when he was still in the Imperium. An exhibition of his talent and accomplishments; complicated, ornate and ordered. But the past few years had changed him. The difference between lashing out with something, anything, and achieving the most effective form could be a few seconds. Lavellan had his clan to cover him, Vivienne her Circle, Solas his wards and barriers. Dorian only had himself. As such, he didn’t always have _a few seconds_.

And so Dorian fought like wildfire, chaotic and deadly. The motions of his staff quick and fierce, hot fire and dark power consuming his own defences to fuel themselves. Enough to make a smouldering wreck of most living things. Survive, survive, survive and deal with the consequences later.

Sadly, pride demons were not most living things. It was difficult to tell when they were hurt, as their bodies weren't bodies, per se. But as this pride demon climbed to its feet after Dorian's onslaught, he could tell he'd at least managed to piss it off. It squared its shoulders, that metallic armour sheen falling back over its skin as twin whips of electricity dropped from its wrists.

Varric, Cole and Sera had been picking off the shades and wraiths, but the rift only spilled out more as the demon began to stalk towards them. Solas' pale hand glinted out of the corner of Dorian's eye as he replaced the scorched remains of Dorian's barrier. Dorian was reluctant to admit that they made a good team in that regard.

“What is the correct title for a cousin of the Empress?” Vivienne asked.

Cassandra knocked a wraith between them, and Lavellan raised his hand to stun it, a pulse of energy beating outwards from him. “Is it Duke and Duchess?” Lavellan panted.

“Grand Duke and Grand Duchess,” Vivienne corrected. Cassandra cut the wraith down with a slick swipe of her blade. “They will be rather offended if you fail to make the distinction.”

The pride demon latched on to Blackwall's shield arm with one of its electric cords, but the Warden held his ground as it attempted to fling him across the field. He must have let go of his shield, because both the whip and the shield ricocheted back. Blackwall lowered his stance, drawing a parrying knife from his belt with his mangled glove.

But the demon turned away from him as Lavellan tugged at the rift, a searing blast of green stabbing through the demon's chest. They'd both pissed it off now. One of Varric's trick bolts plunged into its thick hide and burst into flames, but if it was in pain it was storming through it.

As it got close to them, Dorian lashed out again. The air tasted bloody, the acrid tang of necromancy, as he lay every hex within his power upon the creature.

The vast monster of the fade was still standing.

The electric whip lashed out, and Dorian’s barrier was still down.

He threw his arms up, an improvised magical shield half-spreading from his hands. But not quick enough to cover everything. The whip carried on, and Dorian hissed in pain as the raw magic cut a burning gash in his shoulder.

“Cover Dorian!” Lavellan barked as he lunged forward.

A green blur as the overstretched demon drew back for another strike – Lavellan let the mark open all the way, dragging it off-balance.

Cassandra and Vivienne caught it between them, the silver and gold blades piercing it.

And shafts of light poured from the holes instead of blood.

Demons didn’t leave corpses. Only smouldering ash, a scattering of the alchemical components that technically composed its body. With a lash of green, the Fade reclaimed its soul.

The academic part of Dorian’s mind wondered what it felt like, magically speaking, to connect with a rift as the Inquisitor did when he closed them.

He could already imagine what it felt like physically, from Lavellan’s ragged breathing, the way sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold.

The rift let out a deafening drone as Lavellan forced it closed, and then it was gone. Only the ringing in Dorian’s ears remained.

Dorian put both hands out, one bloody from clutching his wounded shoulder, and helped Cassandra catch Lavellan as he staggered backwards, and collapsed.


	12. Chapter 12

Lavellan didn't stay unconscious for long. By the time Dorian and Cassandra had marched him down the hill towards Redcliffe, he was blearily half-awake, and insisted on entering the town himself. Dorian watched Lavellan carefully, his own bloody handprints still sticking to the back of Lavellan's leathers. He caught Lavellan looking back at him, blank eyes lingering on his wound. Dorian half-smiled and half-grimaced, his hand pressing a barrier down against it as a makeshift bandage. Cassandra touched Lavellan's shoulder to turn him back around.

The people of Recliffe lined up to offer the Inquisitor their thanks, beg him for blessings, grab at his sleeves – the usual fanfare – and Lavellan leaned on walls, on fences, on his staff to keep himself upright. Dorian wasn't certain how much of it was a conscious attempt to keep up the appearance of the invincible Inquisitor and how much of it was the instinct for putting a brave face on things that had gotten Lavellan into this situation in the first place.

Cassandra was clearly doing her best to hurry him along towards the lodgings they'd been promised for the night, but there was only so much she could do. Dorian had heard whispers ripple through Redcliffe while he'd been hiding out during the Venatori occupation, complaining that the Templars had _abandoned them to the mages_.

Dorian knew that the ever-prepared Josephine would have given Lavellan and Cassandra instructions. That when the Inquisitor finally visited, he must show the people of Redcliffe – and by extension, its influential Arl – that the Inquisition was different. He had almost expected to see Vivienne by Lavellan's side, overseeing his manner of speech, but he supposed that how the Inquisitor should best address Fereldan peasants wasn't her area of expertise.

Dorian thought he saw the swirl of red Tevinter robes slipping away from the crowd. House Pavus' retainers had apparently learned a predilection for making a scene from their employers. Dorian wasn't going to let things play out that way – noticing, panicking, following, and having whatever dramatic altercation was intended for him play out when he was completely alone. He would much rather make them wait.

And as much as he'd embarrassed himself with another angry outburst when Lavellan had given him the letter, Dorian didn't intend to face this without him. If Lavellan was still standing, at least.

Dorian was almost grateful when the snow flurry started. The practical concerns of the townspeople seemed to cause many of them to decide they were satisfied with a mere look at the Herald of Andraste, and the crowd began to thin. Dorian averted his eyes from the inn that had previously been Alexius and the Venatori's base of operations. The one his father's retainer was allegedly presently taking a room in. Dorian wondered if he knew, if the other mage – he assumed his father wouldn’t send a mere servant – had been drawn there by the lingering traces of Alexius’ experiments. Dorian risked a look for red clothes at the windows, and was relieved to see nothing.

Cassandra and Lavellan had stopped in front of a guest house on the other side of the square. The Seeker already had one hand on the door, the other gazing warningly at the remnants of the crowd. Dorian supposed this was how the late Southern Divine had retained her approachable image – that of course she would stop and shake every hand, if only she was not hustled past by her grateful but pragmatic bodyguard.

Still looking a little stunned, Lavellan gave a sweeping glance around the crowd. Dorian realised with growing horror that they were expecting him to speak. “Thank you for your hospitality in allowing us to rest here tonight,” Lavellan said stiffly. He made the wrong bow, a neat forward fold usually used by servants, and let Cassandra usher him through the door.

The crowd were less interested in the rest of them. Not that they didn't whisper, not that they didn't stare. But they didn't approach, and so Dorian followed on into the lodging house. In time to help Cassandra catch Lavellan as he crumpled again. They lay him down on one of the beds.

“I'm going to get Solas,” Cassandra said, hurrying back out of the door.

The lodging house looked almost like a barracks, with a boot-worn wooden floor and slender beds lined up along the wall. Dorian wondered if Templars had stayed here, due to Redcliffe's proximity to the Circle tower. Or if its establishment was more recent than that. While he'd been staying here, it had been a hostel for the displaced, whether by the war or by the Venatori clearing out houses to make room for themselves. Dorian knelt down next to Lavellan's bed, wincing as he straightened his shoulders.

“Your shoulder,” Lavellan murmured, raising a limp hand towards him.

“Lavellan,” Dorian said softly. “I'm not getting stitches from someone who can barely stand.”

Lavellan laughed weakly. Dorian's eyes lingered on his hand. He reached for it, lacing his fingers through Lavellan's as if they were dancing. Feeling the mark, still hot from use, against his palm as he pulled his grip close. Lavellan closed his fingers over Dorian's hand, and held it there.

Dorian met Lavellan's curious eyes, and felt himself smile. The door opened behind them, and Lavellan pressed his fingers against Dorian's knuckles. Asking him not to let go, and so he didn't, as much as his instincts cried out for him to hide.

Dorian was used to desiring in the dark. In private rooms and behind locked doors. The secret code that passed between men like him in Tevinter was purely practical, and layered with plausible deniability. Whatever it was Lavellan wanted from him, he seemed determined to drag it into the light.

“He collapsed again,” Cassandra explained. Dorian kept his eyes lowered. In Tevinter, he would have seen disgust. That at best, his failure to disguise his desires was embarassing. That at worst, he was perverted, abandoning his station and duty purely in service of his own pleasure. The latter was, he imagined, how he was remembered by his former peers.

“Can I see the mark?” Solas asked. Dorian lifted his eyes to meet Lavellan's as he released his hand. Lavellan smiled at him, then looked to Solas.

“It doesn't hurt,” Lavellan said.

But Dorian wasn't in Tevinter anymore. And before they left, he would remind his father's retainer why he didn't intend to go back. Dorian lifted his chin to look at Cassandra and Solas. They were both focused entirely on Lavellan. “It's fairly obvious what's wrong with him,” Dorian said. “He's exhausted.”

A flash of green reflected on Solas' face as he did something to cause the mark to flare. “You may be right,” he said. “I expect that its proximity to the rebel mages caused the rift to be more strenuous to close than expected.”

“So he's not injured?” Cassandra said.

Solas shook his head, and the Seeker looked visibly relieved. “He simply needs to rest,” Solas replied. He turned his eyes to Dorian. “Dorian, I would like to see to Blackwall first, as I believe his arm may have been fractured. Then I will attend to your wound. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, yes, that's fine,” Dorian replied, waving a hand.

Solas left without another word. Cassandra lingered at the foot of the bed.

“I'll be staying here,” Dorian said, looking up at her. “So I can watch over the Inquisitor, if you've any business to attend to.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, then walked away.

Dorian leaned in closer to Lavellan. “I shan't be speaking to you again until you've slept, do you understand me? I shall absolutely deny you my company if you are unable to resist your instinct to rescue orphans from trees or what have you for one day.”

“That's fine,” Lavellan murmured, already drifting off. Dorian got to his feet and lay himself on the next bed over, turning his head to watch as Lavellan twisted into a more comfortable sleeping position.

“Dorian,” Cassandra said quietly.

“Yes?” Dorian replied. She was standing at the foot of the bed in the otherwise empty hostel, holding a book.

“I owe you an apology,” she said tersely. “I feel that I misjudged you.”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon?”

“It will not be news to you that I was opposed to your joining the Inquisition,” she said. “Lavellan had no questions as to your loyalty, but I went as far as to petition Josephine and Leliana to investigate whether you could be a spy.”

“You're not the only one who had that suspicion,” Dorian said flatly.

“I am realising that perhaps what I didn't like was your manner,” she continued.

“This is a very strange apology, Seeker,” Dorian replied.

“You act as if you don't care about anything. And I suppose I believed you.”

She thrust the book out to him. There was a beautiful black-haired knight on the cover, his armour gleaming in an unseen sun. Confused, but not unpleased, Dorian took it.

“I think you do care about our cause,” she said. “You have done nothing but work for it the past few months.” She gestured to the book. “I love these books because they are full of people who care. So I thought I would lend you one of my favourites, as a symbol of my apology.”

Dorian turned the book over in his hands. “I'm touched, Seeker,” he said. A faint smile came across his lips, and he raised the book to her. “To being more than we appear, Cassandra.”

For perhaps the first time, he saw the Seeker smile. “To being more than we appear.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

The snow still trickled through the cold morning light. Dorian pulled his coat close, wincing as it dragged against his bandages.

“Are you ready?” Lavellan asked. He had changed into the uniform of one of Leliana’s scouts to avoid drawing attention, his tan face now partially obscured by a pale green hood. It suited him.

“It’s not going to take very long,” Dorian replied. He swallowed tightly and took a step across the courtyard, towards the Gull and Lantern. The sound of Lavellan’s boots crunching through the fresh snow followed behind him.

Dorian’s head was a mess. He was remembering too much, being here. He used to meet Felix around this time in the morning – one of the few times of the day he would manage to escape his father’s overbearing observation, with the excuse that walks were good for his increasingly failing constitution. Dorian hadn’t seen the inside of the inn while he’d been staying here. Perhaps it would be better if it stayed that way. He could produce any number of excuses, after all.

He came to a halt at the large statue of a griffon in the centre of the courtyard, and turned on his heel to face Lavellan.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Dorian said, grinning uneasily. “Perhaps we should forget about this. I’m certain they’ll take my absence as answer enough.”

Lavellan looked at him, and then over his shoulder towards the Gull and Lantern. “I see you’re stalling,” Lavellan said dryly.

Dorian exhaled, leaning back against the statue. “Perhaps I am,” he replied. Lavellan stepped forward, and perched himself a little further along the plinth.

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” Lavellan said gently.

Dorian stared ahead of them. He could make out a sliver of the docks at this angle, the water gleaming like molten metal.

“Why didn't you come to Redcliffe before now?” Dorian blurted out.

Lavellan went quiet. The town itself seemed to go silent, the interminable moments punctuated only by the cries of the ornery waterfowl beneath the pier.

“It was obvious that there was something wrong with the Templars,” Lavellan said. “And the woman who invited me to Redcliffe didn't seem under duress.”

Dorian had already run through it all in his head before he’d left. Perhaps if they’d smuggled a letter out, made contact with the Inquisition in the Crossroads. Felix had quieted him. It was all done now, he’d smiled. All that remained was what they did next.

Lavellan lifted his head towards the sky. “Given that they already thought I was a heretic, I thought that the Templars would be a danger if I didn't deal with them first, and that I could speak to the mages afterwards.” He sighed. “I didn't realise how deeply Corypheus had buried his talons into both of them until it was too late.”

“I don’t… envy your decision, Lavellan,” Dorian murmured. Perhaps it would have been easier, if he could have been furious with the Inquisitor. Blamed Felix’s death on his non-arrival, somehow, and shifted his guilt at not having been there somewhere else. But even Andraste herself couldn’t have stopped the fetid sickness coursing through Felix’s body.

All that was left for him to regret was what Corypheus had done to the mages, would have done to the Templars if their positions had been reversed, and taking a personal vendetta against him was as useless as swearing revenge on the wind or rain.

“I didn't think they'd kill Alexius,” Dorian said. His words dried up.

Lavellan tentatively brushed the hood aside, his black vallaslin glittering like obsidian against the snow-dusted town.  “The Magister,” he prompted. “I remember you telling me about him.”

“I thought he was too useful to them, but apparently the Venatori value bootlicking over real academic talent,” Dorian rambled. “I thought that as long as he was alive, there was at least one man working with the Venatori that I knew could be... redeemed, I suppose. People who were there because they were desperate, rather than because they truly wanted to resurrect the old Imperium.” Dorian restlessly brushed snow from his lapel, as if it itched him. “But they slit Alexius' throat, and sent Fiona and the other rebellion leaders on a suicide run into the heart of the Inquisition's forces.”

A grimace flickered across Lavellan's face. They both knew that some of those hopes of the rebellion had perished by his green fire, that the Inquisitor was the weapon Corypheus had used to end their lives.

“I want to believe that the mages can still be saved,” Dorian said. He shook his head and sighed. That wasn’t what he meant. “I want to believe that Tevinter can still be saved,” he corrected. “But I'm not currently seeing a lot of reasons to be hopeful, not while the Venatori have Corypheus' might to squash any who would consider moving against them. Eventually, there won’t be anyone left to fight.”

“You’re still here, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly.

Dorian snorted. “When we worked together, Alexius gave me hope that we were going to make a difference. You can see how that worked out.” Dorian threw his hands up. “We both left Tevinter, and… here we are. A wastrel and a carcass, changing nothing.”

“Dorian, you know that’s not true,” Lavellan said firmly. “You came to the Inquisition because you wanted to make the world a better place, and you have.”

“Yes, _the Inquisition_ changes things,” Dorian snapped. “ _Your_ Inquisition. I am not you, Inquisitor.”

Dorian stood away from the statue, and gestured across to the Gull and Lantern. “When I go in there, will I be any different from when I left? Will my family? Or will we have the same arguments we’ve always had?” His voice splintered into breathy laughter. “We’re no stranger to arguing through servants and letters, so even the addition of a third party won’t be a novelty.”

We’re no stranger to a lot worse, Dorian thought.

He wondered if they’d prepared whoever they’d sent, the way the Inquisition was preparing Lavellan for court. The precisely tuned cutting glares, the correct euphemisms. The same attempts at guilt trips. _Your frivolous interests, your responsibility to your family_. _I don’t know who you are anymore, Dorian, because you are not my son_.

Lavellan hadn’t flinched at Dorian’s raised voice. With his tongue’s fire having burned itself out, Dorian was left only with the cold ashes of embarrassment. Lavellan stepped closer, and spoke quietly. “Does it matter to you, what your family thinks?” he said, looking up at Dorian from beneath the shadow of his hood with those inscrutably serious eyes.

“…I don’t know,” Dorian replied, his hands dropping to his sides. “I don’t know if my father is the kind of man I would want to approve of what I’m doing.”

“Are you worried he won’t disapprove _enough_ at news of your rebellious antics?” Lavellan said, mouth curving into a smirk.

Dorian offered a tense smile in return.

“I used to take a strange pride in pissing him off. Speaking my mind too much at a party and embarrassing him, and so forth.” When it was about their political views, Dorian had taken him as a compass that he should point the opposite direction from. It was almost funny now, to think of his father blasting Alexius as an _upstart reformer_. Half-proud of the prestige of Dorian’s position as the Magister’s research assistant, but never fully happy.

Would it be worse, if all he had to say was that he was proud of him, pretending nothing he’d done to him – nothing he’d tried to do to him – had happened?

“I’m still not quite sure how to imagine court,” Lavellan admitted, eyes lowered. “But I can imagine you, flashing clever words.”

“You should also picture the part where I’m dragged out on my ear afterwards,” Dorian replied. Lavellan laughed. Dorian had no doubt that he’d been brilliant, but it was hard to imagine his self in Tevinter as quite so glittering. There was a hole burned in those memories, and everything at that hole’s edges was charred by it.

“This could still be a trap,” he added, not really believing himself.

If his father was working with the Venatori, would he have joined them to _get his son back_ , in a rather different way from Alexius? Or would he have joined for some far more banal reason – money, power, etcetera? It was hard to picture him as part of them. Halward Pavus craved immortality through stability, and Corypheus was hardly stable.

“Do you want to find out?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian turned towards the Gull and Lantern. It was almost ridiculous, how a squat village tavern was casting such a long shadow in his psyche. “I suppose it won’t take long,” Dorian said.

He took a step, and then paused. Lavellan looked up at him. “Dorian?”

Melting snowflakes glistened around the hem of Lavellan’s hood, like a strange halo. “…Thank you,” Dorian said, mouth twitching into a smile. “For accompanying me.”

“Whenever you need me, Dorian,” Lavellan replied. Dorian tried not to let his smile linger on him for too long. There would be time for that later. He strode towards the Gull and Lantern, and Lavellan followed.

The inside was almost disappointing. Just a tavern. Empty, given the time of day, the rafters laden with lazily drooping cobwebs. Even the bartender was yet to come downstairs.

There was only one other man in here. A man in red Tevinter robes, perched at one of tables, reading a book. He lifted his head.

And Dorian’s stomach dropped as he recognised his father.


	14. Chapter 14

Lavellan’s face twisted in anger, sorrow, anger as Dorian’s faltering voice explained the blood magic ritual. The reason Dorian had _fled_ rather than merely _left_ Tevinter. The way the man now standing mournfully before them had tried to _fix_ him. Lavellan slammed his simmering mark against a table, knocked over a chair, unleashed a torrent of what Dorian assumed were colourful Dalish curses at Halward Pavus.

“Dorian told me he was estranged from his family,” Lavellan said, voice curling into a snarl. “But he didn’t tell me his father was a monster.”

Dorian had thought he would enjoy this more. Having someone he admired learn the truth, and tear into his father for it. Hadn’t this been what he’d imagined closure would look like? Sweeping back home lauded and adored, the handsome bandit king at his elbow with barbed words for those who had wronged him. _You weren’t overreacting, Dorian. What he did was exactly as horrid as it felt._ The end. But any satisfaction Dorian tried to summon felt hollow.

Halward Pavus wasn’t the compass he navigated by anymore. Dorian didn’t need him to love, notice, approve of what he did.

And yet.

They had turned to storm out, when Dorian hesitated. Lavellan stopped, careful green eyes flitting over Dorian’s face.

“If you never get the chance speak to this bastard again,” he said. Slowly, quietly. “Would you regret it?”

Dorian hated that the answer came to him so quickly. Hated what the answer was even more.

“I would.”

Lavellan nodded evenly.

Lavellan, waiting on the letters that would tell him which of his clan he’d never see again. Lavellan, who had glimpsed the parts of Dorian that were unfortunately sentimental. Lavellan, of all people, of course he understood.

Lavellan took a step closer, and kept his voice low. “Do you want me to stay, or would you like some privacy?”

Despite the situation, Dorian found himself smirking. “Dearest Inquisitor, I can’t have you learning all the dark secrets of my past quite this easily.”

“You’re right, I expect I’ll have to listen to you tell me them later,” Lavellan replied. His unconvincing attempt at a smile cracked, his hands tensed. “If he tries _anything_ , Dorian--”

“I know,” Dorian said softly. His fingers straightened the silver Inquisition clasp on the lapel of Lavellan’s now-abandoned disguise, a strange reassurance. “I’m certain I can fend for myself.”

Lavellan exhaled. “I know.” He took a step back, placed his hand on the door. “I’ll get your pack from the lodging house and meet you outside when we’re ready to leave.” He pressed his lips together as if he was about to say something else to him. Instead, he raised his head to glare over Dorian’s shoulder.

“Halward Pavus,” Lavellan said steadily. Voice like distant thunder, and eyes like lightning. “After what you tried to do to him, you don’t deserve to have a man as kind as Dorian as a son.”

Lavellan slammed the door behind him.

Alone, the bar was dark, dusty and far too large. Dorian turned to face his father, squared his shoulders, and said nothing.

Love, family, respect can be conditional. Halward Pavus was the one who had taught him that lesson.

If his father wanted a single murmur of reconciliation to spill from Dorian’s lips, he’d have to beg for it.


	15. Chapter 15

The ice on Lake Calenhad was sinking back into the water, owing to the day's unseasonably mild turn. Satchels full of clipped elfroot leaves and blood lotus blooms, Lavellan's excuse for this excursion away from camp, rested against a tree away from the pebbled shoreline.

They both knew they weren't out here for potion supplies, but Dorian was struggling with where to start talking.

Lavellan's wrist flicked out, and a round, black stone skimmed across the surface of the lake, leaving shallow ripples in its wake. Dorian knelt to take a rock of his own. Not smooth, not to skim. Rough, heavy, jagged. He threw it as hard as he could, and it tore through the skin of the water with a satisfyingly ugly splash.

“I feel as though I tricked you, Inquisitor,” Dorian said slowly, watching the waves settle.

“ _That's_  what you came out of this morning with?” Lavellan growled, gravel crunching beneath his feet as he paced.

“Allow me to clarify,” Dorian said, frowning. “I let you think I was a revolutionary, that I left Tevinter because it was an affront to my deeply held moral principles. But that isn't true. I didn't leave for the slaves, the servants, the soporati – I barely noticed them. I left to save myself, and myself only. A single Altus.”

Lavellan crouched next to him, his deft fingers probing the lakeside gravel. “If you want me to be upset with you about this, Dorian, I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed.”

Dorian stared out into the dark, swaying water, and sat on the rocks. What did he want from this exchange? Lavellan was right, he was pushing. Dorian took a steadying breath.

“I expected that speaking to him would be more... cathartic,” he said.

And yet, had he? He had known an apology wouldn't be enough. He tried to grab a handful of stones, to scatter them into the lake as if in divination, but his hand was shaking too much.

“I suppose I thought that he'd try to convince me in person that trying to erase my mind with a blood magic ritual had been for my own good, and I would get to have the argument I've been imagining having since I left,” Dorian said. “But he didn't. Talked a lot about regret, and such. How similar we are deep down. Stubbornness, intelligence and pride.”

Dorian smiled bitterly.

“You know, my mother used to tell me that I was overreacting. Being unreasonably impractical –  _many Magisters do as they please, as long as they do so in secret_. I only had to give up shaming the family name with my  _antics_  in public. I only had to produce an heir. With all the privileges I would have as an Altus Magister, couldn't I at least be happy that my hell would be a golden one? She didn't say,  _as mine has been_ , but I suppose I knew that's what she meant.”

“Dorian, that's horrifying,” Lavellan said, mouth hanging open.

“Ah, to be a noble, Inquisitor,” Dorian grinned. “I am afraid that for all their talk, you will find our cousins in Orlais to be scarcely an improvement. You are attending Halamshiral to intercede in a succession crisis, after all, are you not? Which family gets to have status, and which should lose it.” Dorian shrugged. “If I was an Orlesian Duke, that's what my father would tell me I was setting our family up for. Distant cousins going to war over who gets to keep the silverware.”

“Perhaps I should listen to Sera's suggestions for once and simply burn the place down,” Lavellan replied flatly.

“Ah, I'm afraid that would only make things worse,” Dorian said, sighing dramatically. “So many cousins of cousins. That's more arson than even you could possibly oversee.” He glanced over his shoulder to Lavellan. “Do the Dalish have some equivalent? You don't keep land, I suppose, but I'm certain you must have something to pointlessly squabble over.”

“Not really,” Lavellan replied, cupping his chin in his hand. “When a member of the clan dies, we redistribute their useful possessions to those who can best use them, and let friends and family take trinkets as a reminder. If a child is orphaned, another member of the clan will adopt them, typically one without their own children.” He frowned in thought. “I suppose we have arranged marriages, sometimes. If, for example, if one clan's numbers are dwindling while another has too many to feed. But that's... different from what you were talking about. It's more like how we might move mages between clans, if one has many and another has none.”

“It occurs to me that you haven't spoken a lot about your family,” Dorian said.

Lavellan shrugged awkwardly. “There's not a lot to say,” he muttered. “We were happy.”

Dorian realised he was an idiot. Probing him about his family now, when his clan was still in danger. “...Have you heard anything?” he asked carefully.

Lavellan turned back towards the lake. “Leliana's scout has gotten them to safety, but they're still trying to figure out where they came from. She thinks the local Bann could be... if not involved, then at least turning a blind eye.” He fidgeted with his cuff. “We're going to talk about what to do next when I get back to Skyhold.”

Dorian nodded. “If there's anything I can do to help,” he offered. He felt useless. Lavellan had walked him straight through seeing his father again, and he could do nothing in return.

“We'll see,” Lavellan said tightly. He turned his face upwards, towards the horizon. “...I suppose we should be getting back,” he added. Lavellan stood, and offered Dorian his hand. This time, Dorian took it. Lavellan pulled him to his feet, stronger than his slight frame would have suggested.

They stood in silence. There was always more to say. Lavellan spoke first. “I'm... glad you're still yourself,” he said, avoiding Dorian's eyes. “I like this Dorian. I think he's brave.”

And Lavellan quickly turned and strode off, towards the tree where they'd left the herbs.

“And  _kind_ , I believe was the word you said to my father,” Dorian blurted out as he followed. “I admit, that wasn't the word I was expecting. Clever, bold, talented, handsome, perhaps.”

“Your father already knows you're all of those things,” Lavellan said. “And so, clearly, do you.”

Lavellan slung the satchel of elfroot over his shoulder, and passed the blood lotus to Dorian.

“Everything practical, all of your obvious weapons,” Lavellan continued. “But you're more than that, Dorian. It's not always useful to be kind, but you are. It's not always safe to stand up for your beliefs, but you do.” He sighed. “That's why I said kind. Because... I don't think your family understands how valuable it is, to be kind and to be brave. Your father was too cowardly to say  _this is my son, and this is who he is_.”

Dorian looked towards the sky, heart sinking.  _I'm sorry that I broke your trust. I'm sorry that I drove you away. I'm sorry that I failed you._

“...I couldn't forgive him, in the end,” Dorian said.

He wanted to storm back towards camp. Let Lavellan figure the rest out himself. He was clever, and it wasn't exactly hard. But Dorian's mouth kept moving, voice cracking. “Because I will never know if he would have regretted losing the real me. If it had worked. And neither will he. That's... that's why. I can't.”

 _I had thought it would be more cathartic._ And yet here he was, still knotted. The lakeside breeze blew cool and clear, and Dorian walked away.


	16. Chapter 16

Skyhold loomed large on the horizon as they rode back through the mountain pass. Five days of Lavellan's month of preparations for the Winter Court, and Dorian suspected that all Lavellan had learned in the time was further reason to find the human nobility abhorrent.

He should have kissed Lavellan on the shore of Lake Calenhad, instead of wittering on about his father. But he hadn't regretted anything he'd said. He... he had wanted Lavellan to know, he supposed. And if he only had one moment to bring this _thing_ between them into reality, ignite the brief, burning glory in which all of his _relations_ blazed before a respectable return to normality, he didn't want his messy conflict with his father to have any part of it.

But there was always something, wasn’t there? Lavellan’s clan. Dorian’s family. Tears in the Veil. The war in Orlais, the missing Grey Wardens, Corypheus, the Venatori. Always a dark cloud cast over them, however much of a balm he found Lavellan's company to be, however much they exchanged glances, brushed fingers, complimented each other with intimate observations.

He had cared less in Tevinter, where there could have been no stakes but his own satisfaction. Where there had been phrases, signals, gestures that passed between men with _the knowledge_ of such signs. Understandings and expectations. _Tell me, have you studied the works of Antinous?_

Coded advances were acceptable, up to a point. Affairs were an enjoyable distraction, up to a point. And he knew where that point was, the line he wasn't to hope beyond. When Dorian – and it was usually Dorian, given that both his family home and Alexius' were inappropriate venues for secret rendezvous – would put his clothes back on, leave discreetly, and offer no public acknowledgement afterwards, no knowing smiles or glances. After all, this was no forbidden-but-respectable blood magic ritual. There was no power or respect in rumours of your participation. Ironically, he supposed that if _that_ had been what he was doing out so late at night, his father would still have disapproved, but would have done nothing.

But Lavellan wasn't from Tevinter. Lavellan didn't understand any ciphers Dorian might have spoken in. This _thing_ Dorian wanted from him, with him, he couldn't ask for casually. Dorian's traitor heart said that perhaps there was no line with Lavellan, that outside of Tevinter perhaps this wasn't an indulgence that would last a few weeks at most and the occasional bored night thereafter, but his head kept him guarded. What he thought Lavellan might want was a shadow cast by an object he couldn't see. A pretty illusion, just as likely to dissipate at Dorian's touch as every other mirage he'd been fool enough to fall for.

Dorian wasn't in the mood to trail through another procession today. Cullen and his soldiers had cleared a space around the gates, to keep the crowds from spilling out on to the bridge, and Dorian nudged his horse through it and towards the stables. He doubted he would be missed. He wasn't who they were here to see, after all. Eyes darted, of course, seeing one of the Inquisitor's companions slinking away like this. But a few dozen people, perhaps, of the hundreds with their eyes turned upon the Inquisitor and his Right Hand.

Leaving his horse with Dennet, who seemed almost relieved to have some sort of practical distraction from the spectacle, Dorian wove through the crowds towards the stairs to the upper courtyard, towards the keep.

He almost started, seeing a figure in red at the top of the stairs overlooking the procession. But it was the wrong red. Southern Chantry red. _Mother Giselle_. She hadn't seen him. He could have walked past her, and saved himself the risk of making a scene. But no, he had words for her, and the buzzing of the crowd below was loud enough to hide them.

And if he did make a scene after all, well, he could handle that. He stalked up the stairs, and slipped in beside her.

“Before I retire for the afternoon, Mother Giselle,” Dorian purred in sing-song irritation. “Do you have any more letters from people I have estranged myself from? Enemies from school, perhaps? The bickering matriarchs from my mother's cat breeding society? I will gladly take notes for anyone else, given that you apparently have no issues with spreading gossip. Does Blackwall have a long-lost twin, perhaps? Solas a secret lover?”

Mother Giselle stayed composed, gazing serenely at Lavellan and Cassandra as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. “Dorian, will you join me for a walk in the garden?”

“I can't think of anything I would enjoy less,” Dorian replied.

But she peeled herself away from the crowd, and he walked alongside her. At least as far as the keep, he told himself. Where he could turn away to the library, and she would likely be too polite to follow.

“I understand that you made contact with your father,” Mother Giselle said, as calmly as if she was making a remark about the weather. Had someone found out and run straight to tell her, or was she merely assuming Lavellan had done what she'd asked and taken him to meet the messenger?

“And I'm sure if you keep seeking out gossip about my private life you'll _understand_ a number of rather colourful interpretations of what might have happened at such a meeting,” Dorian replied.

“I do not like to see families torn apart, Dorian,” she said. “Your father seemed a kind man at heart, in his letters.”

“Ah, you say _families torn apart_ as if we were rent by a natural disaster,” Dorian said. “I assure you, families are quite capable of proving unsuitable to themselves.”

“Would you speak to me of what happened?” she asked, turning her _come-here-dear-child-of-the-Maker-all-will-be-well_ expression towards him.

But this was not a wound he was going to tear open again so soon, especially not for her. She could carry on thinking he and his father’s separation was due to _a simple misunderstanding_ , and disapprove as deeply as she wanted at his poor filial piety.

“No,” he said. “But tell me, did you know it would be my father himself? Lavellan seemed rather surprised.”

If she was shocked by this, she didn't show it. “I didn't, Dorian. And I apologise for my deception. But I hope you found some good in seeing him again.”

Dorian rolled his eyes. “You can believe whatever helps you sleep at night after a long day of meddling, Mother Giselle.”

They reached the near-empty entryway to the keep. Some of the soldiers, some of the scouts, going about their routine uninterrupted by the Inquisitor's return. Dorian turned, and strode towards the door that led to the library.

“Dorian,” Mother Giselle called. “Wait. There is something else I must speak with you about.”

He would regret this, but he turned back. Mother Giselle clearly had no qualms with trying to solve Dorian's personal issues behind his back if he didn't accept her _help_.

“Are we planning to reunite dear Princess Pentaghast with the Nevarran royals, if we are to continue in the business of mending families?” Dorian sniped. “I will speak with you on that if you must, _Revered Mother_ , but I'm really the wrong person to ask. Josephine, perhaps, would be better.”

Her face grave and her voice still, Mother Giselle led him to the gardens.

Dorian had avoided coming here, unless he was going somewhere. It was supposed to be relaxing, he gathered. Someone was keeping a herb garden in the corner nearest the keep, staked over with a fabric mesh to keep the snow out. Someone obviously more concerned with keeping the contact poisons away from the elfroot than with making it look pretty.

He thought of the extensive floral borders his mother had created on the path to the family estate, and how she would have a servant watch him like a hawk almost into adulthood in case he, for some reason, took the whim to leap into them and ruffle her careful arrangements. He thought of the neat movements of Lavellan’s hands when it was their turn to gather supplies for camp, clipping medicinal flowers from their stems with his pocket knife, and how those hands would pause when Lavellan was going to speak, to tell Dorian the name his people had for the plant, or some other little detail.

Mother Giselle slowed. They passed under the shade of a tree. “People talk, Dorian, as I am sure you know,” she said.

It was obvious bait, but Dorian took hold of it knowingly. “And what are _people_ saying, then?” he asked.

Mother Giselle did not turn away or bow her head when she spoke to him. With every word she watched his face, eyes hiding nothing. “That the Inquisitor takes frequent private counsel with a noble from the country of our enemies, and places undue weight on his advice,” she replied.

“Have _the people_ considered that perhaps I simply give very good advice?” Dorian said dryly.

She was still as a column, barely moving her head. “They see how you whisper in the Inquisitor's ear, how he visits your quarters at night, how close you seem,” she said. “And they wonder what you could be asking of him.”

In the middle of the garden, so many eyes watched. Mother Giselle's own two, the stone eyes of the Chantry's statues, the dark-lined eyes on the Inquisition's banners. He wondered if that was why she had chosen it, if she believed that even a pariah such as himself would be unable to lie in front of so many watchers.

“Perhaps you should be asking the Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, anger creeping into his voice. “I doubt an answer from the mouth of a degenerate necromancer from _the country of their enemies_ would satisfy those who ask you that question.” He smiled darkly. “Unless it's you who asks it, Mother Giselle. In which case I would ask you to speak more plainly as to what you mean. If you truly thought I was a spy, I suspect you wouldn't have agreed to arrange a meeting between myself and my father.”

“I speak as plainly as I can,” Mother Giselle replied. The winter sun ensured that no shadows crossed her face. “In Orlais, even the Chantry knows how to play the Grand Game, and you are a far more experienced player of games than the Inquisitor. We both know of the narrow path walked by the precariously powerful. A player in such a position is vulnerable, and often blind to the moves of those they count as their favourites. If a noble in exile sought to gain power, favours and position away from their homeland, would they not seek out intimacy with such a person?”

“You think I'm _using_ him?” Dorian snapped. “Honestly, I would prefer you to think me a spy. A spy, at least, has some kind of personal integrity.”

“I do not mean to insult you, Dorian,” she continued. “But I am concerned for the Inquisitor. It would bring harm upon all of the faithful if he were to be manipulated. I know what goals his advisors follow, and know they are for the good of the world. But beyond your rudeness to some of my people and what your father has written, I do not know you.”

She was right, of course. They both knew how his actions looked, if they were viewed as moves.

_I’m already here, Dorian. If we’re to play the Grand Game at Skyhold too, they’ll already be talking._

“Then take it up with Leliana,” Dorian spat. “You wouldn't be the first. By this point, I'm certain she has quite the report on me.”

He didn't turn back when she called after him this time. He felt that certain elements of the Inquisition brought out the worst in him, this tendency to storm out of the room. But there was nothing else to say, was there? Even if he bared his heart to Mother Giselle, and she spoke of his pure, good nature to her flock, others would still talk. At least the nobility knew how to whisper.


	17. Chapter 17

There were no familiar faces in the Herald's Rest. Good. Dorian ordered two glasses of shit red wine from Cabot without interruption, and took himself to a table in the corner.

It felt marginally less pathetic than heading straight to his quarters. He could tell himself this was a choice he was making, a celebratory and social visit to the tavern to rub elbows with the  _ordinary people_ of the Inquisition. And not that he was too angry to go to the library as if nothing had happened, and had apparently failed to develop any better coping mechanisms. Perhaps his father would know a blood ritual for this.

It wasn't as funny a thought as he'd hoped.

Dorian could ask himself how he would look through Mother Giselle's eyes. But he supposed that was the wrong question. If someone already suspected him of hiding something, that was how the hypothetical  _they_  would sift through his actions. Behold the deviant’s vices, proof of not only this sin but others.

“Dorian, there you are!”

He lifted his head from his brooding to glance at the interloper. “Ah, Josephine,” he replied. “I hadn't realised this was the sort of establishment you frequented.”

“Only on special occasions,” she smiled. “I am actually looking for the Inquisitor, I don’t suppose you have seen him?”

“Not since we arrived,” Dorian replied. “I assumed he would be in the War Room with yourself and his other advisers.”

“I have been… busy,” Josephine said. “I am glad I ran into you, however. I had intended to invite you, also.”

“Invite me?” Dorian asked, raising his eyebrows. “Whatever are you planning, Josephine?”

“I arranged a... practical surprise for the Inquisitor and his companions for their return to Skyhold,” Josephine explained, pressing her palms together. “A… wine tasting. It will be... both fun and educational.”

Dorian snorted in amusement. “You don't sound terribly convinced, Ambassador.”

“It  _will_  be fun... when everyone arrives.” Josephine sighed, eyes lifting towards the ceiling. “The Inquisitor disappeared after the procession. I, too, assumed he was visiting Leliana or Cullen, but... it has been some time. I am not sure where any of them are.”

“If he's slipped away, I'm certain he can't have gone very far,” Dorian said, taking an idle sip from his glass. “...or, if he has, perhaps he needs some time to himself.”

Josephine nodded slowly. “Perhaps you are right. I heard it was a... difficult journey.” She hesitantly motioned to the chair across from Dorian. “May I sit?”

“Be my guest, Ambassador,” Dorian replied, flourishing his open hand. “You may help yourself to the wine as well, if we're to leave to go to a tasting. It's quite disgusting, it will cleanse your palate.”

“You are not meeting anyone?” she asked, raising her wide eyes and gesturing to the second glass. “I had assumed this was for a friend. One of our missing guests, perhaps.”

“No, they’re both for me,” Dorian replied. He considered offering an excuse, but couldn’t think of one that conveyed an appropriate level of nonchalance. He tipped his wine glass towards the untouched drink in front of Josephine. “I would generally not inflict this upon someone I hold in positive regard. Sadly, here you are.”

Josephine carefully lifted the glass, her grip practised and elegant. Dorian smiled blandly. She lifted it to her mouth, frowning gently as she inhaled the wine's scent. “Hmm, I'm getting...” She took a sip, and wrinkled her nose in disgust. She swallowed quickly, coughing. “Notes of... vinegar,” she croaked. “Dorian, why are you drinking this?”

“It's cheap,” he shrugged. “Or perhaps it's a force of habit.” He leaned back and sighed theatrically, as if he was about to regale her with a pleasant story from his youth. “The nostalgic flavour of the only bottle of wine left in a run-down roadside tavern when you're rather desperate.”

“You get a stipend for your work, Dorian,” Josephine frowned. “And now that I mention it, so do our soldiers.” Despite herself, she took another sip. “How long has it been since this wine was uncorked? Why does Skyhold's tavern sell this? We can afford better than this. It could be bad for morale.” She reached as if for her ledger, which she had apparently left elsewhere. “I need to speak to our suppliers.”

Dorian covered his mouth with his hand, masking a laugh.

“I'm serious, Dorian!” Josephine continued, her tone smeared by the smile creeping across her face.

“We have no idea what conditions are like in the Winter Palace, Josephine,” Dorian said, trying to force his face into a serious expression. “Perhaps Duke Gaspard is blocking the Empress’ shipments, and this will be what is served. All of the court will have to decide for themselves whether to shame her for her subpar hospitality, or whether to show their solidarity by finding something kind to say of it.” Dorian took a long drink. Josephine shook her head and started to laugh. “The character is… unique. Rustic, perhaps. Incredibly ripe.”

Josephine lifted the glass back to her mouth, and sipped thoughtfully. “Yes, Lord Pavus, I absolutely agree,” she replied. “It has such an intriguing sour quality to it, does it not?”

“Absolutely, Lady Montilyet,” Dorian replied, lifting the mostly-empty glass as if in a toast. “Raise your glass to the Empress or Emperor of Orlais, and their fine hospitality.”

Josephine clinked her glass against his, and flashed a pearly-toothed grin. “This is precisely what I was thinking of for tonight,” she said brightly. “Even if the Inquisitor is occupied himself, he must have companions who are able to make smalltalk at Halamshiral. You and I have been practicing far longer than one evening, of course.”

“I prefer to say that I’m naturally talented,” Dorian replied.

“Of course, Lord Pavus,” she replied. He laughed, recognising the breezy tone as the one he had heard her use with noble visitors that she was trying to brush off without slighting them. Josephine paused, smiled. “Although, I imagine this means you will end up training rather than participating, again. I apologise for what you have been asked to take on, but I am grateful for your help.”

Dorian smiled carefully. “It’s no trouble, Josephine. It's certainly not what I expected the cause to ask of me, but I can do it.” He drained his wine, and glanced towards the door. “We can hardly leave this all to him, can we?”

“Agreed,” Josephine said, eyes dark and voice hard. The last of the revolting liquid disappeared down her throat, and she got to her feet. “Speaking of the Inquisitor, I should—"

The door of the Herald's Rest swung open as Josephine turned towards it. Any raised heads fell fearfully as Leliana entered.

“Ah, speak of the demons,” Dorian remarked.

Leliana’s entrance was clever – it meant nobody was looking too closely at Lavellan, who followed in the same scout's disguise he'd worn in Redcliffe. He already looked rather bedraggled, so the disguise was likely for the best. Maryden had sung  _The Battle of Redcliffe Rift_  twice since Dorian had arrived, and it wouldn't have taken too much prompting for her to launch into a third rendition of her new – though frankly derivative – composition, should he have been recognised.

“Well, Ambassador,” Dorian said as he stood. “I suppose it’s time.”


	18. Chapter 18

The storeroom was strewn with straw, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling. It was actually somewhat reminiscent of the last Orlesian winery Dorian had visited. That had been during the year when it had been fashionable for nobles to summer in cabins built to imitate peasant villages, pairing their gilded masks with plain clothes and spending a few hours a day standing on grapes or riding horses. Dorian had irritated his hosts by refusing to dress in sackcloth for the visit to a Montsimmard vineyard they had arranged to impress their distinguished guests from the Imperium.

Dorian had known how much that wine sold for back home, and how much it cost to have a new jacket custom-tailored, sackcloth or no, and hadn't considered himself to be missing out on much of an _authentic peasant experience_ by arriving in a black and gold damask cloak and leather trousers.

“This one has a rather oaken aftertaste, wouldn't you say?” Dorian offered, examining his now-empty glass of Lydes 9:20, the fourth wine of the evening, and smiling across at Lavellan.

“If you insist,” Lavellan said blandly, staring down at his glass. “Perhaps I haven’t the palate for telling them apart.”

“The Duchess of Lydes is rather proud of the character,” Vivienne said, swirling her wine thoughtfully.

Dorian had found himself at what seemed to be the business end of the circle, away from the buzzing laughter of the rest of their companions that dimmed only when new glasses were passed out. As this was the end closest to the wine, however, Dorian wasn't inclined to complain.

“It represents the beautiful forests of Lydes, I believe is how she discusses it,” Josephine added.

Lavellan frowned as he tentatively lapped at his sample. “Am I going to be expected to know all of this?”

“Not at the Winter Court, no,” Josephine replied, offering Lavellan what Dorian assumed she considered to be a reassuring smile. “Though it is a useful tool, and a hobby many of the Orlesian nobility share.” She looked towards Leliana, who lingered in a corner slightly outside of the chatter. “It is one of your spymaster's particular talents, in fact.”

“It becomes much easier if you acquire the wine list beforehand,” Leliana said coolly. She seemed to be staring into space, but from where Dorian was standing, he realised that what she was watching was the door. “We are working on it, of course,” she added. “For the benefit of the courtiers in our employ.”

Lavellan sighed.

“As with most hobbies of the nobility, it can of course be used to deliver messages,” Josephine continued. “As Dorian and I were discussing downstairs, the nobility may convey their appraisal of how Empress Celine is handling the war through comments on the sufficiency of her wine selection.”

“Yes,” Dorian said, taking his eyes from Leliana. It was hard for him to imagine the spymaster truly _at ease_ , as much as Josephine had repeatedly declared that this evening was supposed to be a pleasant diversion. “If, for example, the court seems overcome with praise for the acrid dregs from Halamshiral’s personal vineyard, you should take that as a sign. And perhaps not declare aloud that it tastes like horse piss unless you’ve taken a mind to favour Gaspard.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lavellan murmured, setting his empty glass on the dusty barrel next to him.

“Remember, Dandelion, you can just make shit up as long as it sounds good,” Varric said over his shoulder. Having appointed himself the evening's _sommelier_ , Varric was already pouring sample-sized slivers into the next row of glasses. “Trust me, that's how we used to sell this shit in Kirkwall.” He passed a glass of pale white to Lavellan.

“The next drink is a Val Chevin Blanc,” Josephine called.

Lavellan twisted his glass in his hands, and turned his eye towards the row of drinks. “How much did this cost, Josephine?” Lavellan asked quietly.

“Very little,” Josephine assured, smiling widely. “In addition to what we already purchase for the purpose of hosting ambassadors, we have received many vintage drinks as gifts. And bribes. It was a trifle to select a range of what is currently fashionable.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly, and took a sip of his drink.

“I would like to see you practice, my dear,” Vivienne said firmly. “Imagine you are in conversation with a Duchess, and she has asked your appraisal of the wine.”

“Is that likely to happen?” Lavellan asked flatly.

“It will be fun,” Josephine said brightly. “We can all try it.”

Lavellan went to take another sharp mouthful.

“You should take in the aroma first,” Josephine corrected.

Lavellan lowered his glass, expression steely. Then he mimicked the motions Josephine had taken him through earlier. Pausing to smell the wine, and then taking a slow drink. Pausing again, to swirl it in his mouth before he swallowed.

He exhaled slowly. Josephine smiled expectantly. “This is… certainly another glass of grape wine,” Lavellan muttered. “One wonders if Orlais has any other plants.”

Dorian laughed under his breath.

“Generally, one is encouraged to make less dull remarks, Inquisitor,” Vivienne replied.

Lavellan gave Vivienne an icy grin. “My apologies, Madame de Fer. My spymaster brought me here under the impression that this there was something important I had to attend to, and yet my ambassador insists that I am here to enjoy myself. I’m rather unclear on which tone I should be aiming for.”

“Please, relax and enjoy yourself,” Josephine said, grinning fixedly. “This is meant to be a night off for all of you.”

“One must still build good habits, even when at rest,” Vivienne said pointedly, turning towards Josephine.

“Vivienne—” Josephine started.

“I don’t think I need to remind you how little time we have,” Vivienne said. “Would the Marquise of Val Chevin be slighted by his sarcasm, if it was passed on as gossip?”

“Perhaps he would be relieved to share his secret stash of dandelion wine,” Dorian suggested.

Vivienne ignored his remark and turned back towards Lavellan. “Once you are a piece in the Grand Game, you must always act as if you could be observed. Every comment could be scrutinised for double meaning, however innocuous you believe it to be.”

“There is a spiced wine we can try next, if you would like a change,” Josephine said hurriedly, face pulled into a forced smile.

“If I am to be playing at court, then perhaps I could be doing something more useful,” Lavellan said, voice turning hard. “Put me through another lesson, leave me to study the highly complicated feuds between Orlesian vineyard owners.” He drained his glass, and gestured around the room. “This isn't a break for me. This isn't fun. And I'm not learning anything. It's a waste of time.”

“Do you think you can understand court purely through books?” Vivienne snapped. “Take this as tonight’s lesson, Inquisitor. This is what court feels like. An obligation you cannot evade, at once delightful and cruel.” She lifted her head. “I appreciate some of your friends’ attempts to preserve you from its worst parts,” she continued, with a sharp glance at Dorian. “But you need to be ready. As you have insisted yourself, you will not get a second chance.”

“Perhaps we should—” Josephine began.

“I read all of the reports, Vivienne,” Lavellan growled. “I am certain you are just as aware, given your knowledge of Orlais. The people of Emprise de Lion starve because the winter has frozen the river solid. Celene and Gaspard conscript their people to fight back and forth across the Exalted Plains. The Grey Wardens are still missing.” His fingers tightened around the stem of his wine glass. “And _this_ is what the nobility busy themselves with?”

“There are many ways to fight a war, Inquisitor,” Vivienne sniped. “And some that cannot be won by might and magic alone, no matter how impressive your army. Considering the presence of your ambassador and spymaster, I expected you would have remembered that.”

Dorian could imagine this playing out as Vivienne and Josephine’s initial attempt with the cutlery had. They were almost half way through the month, and yet returning to Skyhold, it was almost as if they hadn’t moved at all. The Grand Game continued to be what it always was, and Lavellan continued to reject it. He caught Josephine's frantic glance. Varric reached his hand out to whisper something to the ambassador.

“I find wine to be a rather good cover,” Dorian said quickly, plucking another glass of wine from the crates and taking a preening posture with it as if he wasn’t interrupting an increasingly heated spat. “If I am attempting to insult someone in a plausibly deniable manner, for example, although I’m sure you can use it to be pleasant if you really must.”

Dorian played his mouth into a grin, which nobody apart from sweet, polite Josephine returned. He took a step towards Vivienne, and held his glass up. “This wine, for example, although I admire the complexity of the flavour profile, I find to be rather too bitter to appreciate. I suspect it may have been aged in an older cask, and taken on a rather unpleasant flavour from it.”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow. “I do find it rather unsubtle,” she replied, voice lowered into smoothness. “A clearly laboured attempt to create something refined, but sadly overpowered by poor base character.”

Lavellan put his glass down next to Varric, pressed himself back against the wall. Seeing that Dorian’s eyes had darted away, Vivienne turned her head.

“Thank you for putting this together, Josephine,” Lavellan said roughly. “But I think I need to turn in.”

“Do you require a chaperone?” Dorian said teasingly.

He wasn’t sure if Lavellan was attempting to smile or grimace. “I won’t have you leave on my account, Dorian. Enjoy yourself.”

Leliana shadowed him as he made his way out. There was a moment of silence as the door clicked shut. Dorian turned back towards Josephine, Varric and Vivienne, although his eyes still watched the door.

“I believe you mentioned spiced wine,” Dorian said idly.

“Of course,” Josephine replied.

From downstairs, he heard the rising wail of Maryden’s voice. Dorian wished he didn’t recognise what she was beginning to sing. Varric poured him another wine. _The Battle of Redcliffe Rift_. 


	19. Chapter 19

_Five days_ , Dorian had barked at Leliana, sweeping his arm out to draw the spymaster's cool gaze over the shelves. _We were away for five days, and now the Neverran histories and the natural philosophy books are in the same section._

He was still puzzling over that one. Both books contained dragons, perhaps. Leliana had blamed the library's state on a group of visiting scholars, whose visit had been arranged through Josephine, who claimed they were contacts of Dagna. Even his own corner hadn't been spared. At least his papers were, as far as he could make out, intact. Almost too intact, perhaps, considering they were apparently the sole item undisturbed by the swirl of chaos that had redistributed the books he was using across the far corners of Skyhold.

From the spymaster's wan smile, Dorian suspected that the neat removal and conspicuously inconspicuous return of his notes were her doing, but he hardly cared. The reports were largely for her sake, after all. Magical theory, Tevinter politics, and a few cramped pages of notes on the recent history of Orlais.

Dorian stalked back across the library, carrying the re-gathered volumes of _Collected Writings on Temporal Studies of the Fade_ under his arm – the third volume having been transported, for some reason, to underneath a paper-wrapped corpse heart on the tranquil's desk. And when he turned into his candle-lit reading nook, there was someone lounging in the chair in the corner.

“Ah, Inquisitor,” Dorian said, gently resting the books on his desk. “What brings you to my study?”

Lavellan was sitting oddly, his leg stretched out to the side and propped against the wall, and his face masked by a book on Orlesian theatre traditions. “I'm reading,” Lavellan replied roughly. When he lowered the book to grin at him, Dorian saw a freshly stitched cut above Lavellan's swollen left eye, and bruises that stretched down his throat. “At least, I'm trying to.”

Following the lead of Lavellan's strange smile, Dorian suppressed the instinct to fuss. It wasn't, he thought, one of his more becoming looks. “I'm certain Iron Bull can source an eyepatch for you, if you insist on walking around with that ugly thing on your face,” he remarked, casually dragging the spare chair over. As he moved, Dorian could see the glistening of freshly applied healing salve all down the left side of the Lavellan's face and neck. He was a rather pretty mess.

“So, pray tell,” Dorian continued, motioning towards Lavellan's wound. “What danger were you saving the world from when this happened? Demons? Assassins? Or did you return to the pantry and cork yourself rather violently trying to get into the good sparkling wine?”

“I fell into Cassandra's training sword,” Lavellan croaked, lining his hand up with the cut as if his fingers were a blade. He clenched his fist, and held it towards his bruised throat. “The cross-guard caught me here.”

“And here I thought she’d forgiven you for telling me her secret,” Dorian replied dryly.

“I ran into her after this morning's briefing and asked her to show me how to duel,” Lavellan grinned. Every time he moved his face too far, he winced.

“And you didn't invite me to watch?” Dorian said, theatrically drawing his palm to his chest. “I'm disappointed, Inquisitor.” He supposed he was, actually, but he was hardly going to tell Lavellan that. He had drunkenly considered visiting Lavellan's quarters to check on him after the party, but had found himself steered towards the barracks by Varric, who assumed he had managed to get lost.

Lavellan snickered, his laughter wheezing through his wounded throat. “Maybe next time,” he rasped through a strained grin. “I didn't have a lot of time to assemble an audience before we started.” He mimed a blow to the back of the knee he could still bend.

Dorian smiled sadly. “I have to admit, this isn't what I expected would be the thing to lift your mood after last night.”

“I wanted to throw myself into something... practical,” Lavellan said. He sighed, hunching his shoulders and lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “I just...” he started. He gestured loosely, then stopped. Dorian waited for him to continue, but whatever words Lavellan was searching for clearly weren't coming to him.

The library was quiet, owing to the amount of storming about snatching books and muttering to himself Dorian had been doing for the past hour.

Dorian leaned forward, and gestured to Lavellan's face. “May I?”

“Go ahead,” Lavellan replied. Dorian reached forward. He placed his thumb to the salve-slicked side of Lavellan's injured eye and curled the rest of his fingers against his cheek, careful to avoid brushing Lavellan's vallaslin. There was little if anything written on Dalish etiquette, but he assumed that touching their markings without permission was at least as rude as touching an Orlesian's mask.

“Yes, this is rather nasty,” Dorian said idly. Lavellan lifted his hand to cup Dorian's wrist, flinching slightly as he pressed Dorian's thumb closer to his bruises. Dorian swallowed. Lavellan looked towards the window.

“...Vivienne isn't wrong,” Lavellan said quietly. “It's for the best if I spend as much time as possible practicing. Josephine thought she was being clever, doing something most nobles find entertaining to try to give me a break.  It was a good idea. I'm just... tired. There's so much we need to do, and so little time. I have another dance lesson in half an hour, and I would still be duelling with Cassandra if she hadn't told me to stop.”

 “...I know,” Dorian said. He slowly uncurled his fingers, stretching his palm to cup Lavellan's cheek. He could feel Lavellan's jaw quiver against his fingertips. “...What if I told you to stop now?” he asked. “Take the afternoon off. Do something nice. I shall wait on you personally, if need be.”

Lavellan shook his head, squeezing Dorian's hand. “You know why I can't do that, Dorian,” Lavellan replied.

“I don't think I do, actually,” Dorian said sniffily, fixing his eyes on Lavellan's.  “You spent yesterday morning riding through the Frostbacks being grilled on appropriate formal greetings, the afternoon catching up on every report that's come in during the past five days, the night at a cultural lesson disguised as a party, and then you woke up at the crack of dawn to fit in extra lessons before the ones you already have planned.” He kept talking, despite his vow not to fuss, voice crackling. “How many times do I have to explain that I'm worried about you?”

It felt a little pathetic as soon as he'd said it. _Slow down, so I will feel better_. He had snapped and fretted over Felix like that a rare few times. Anyone else, even less. And he hated it every time, how vulnerable it made him feel.

“...You're right, Dorian,” Lavellan said, eyes lowered. “I'm... not going to learn anything well if I push myself like this. I'm just.. trying to make up for lost time, I suppose.” Dorian felt the muscles in Lavellan's neck tighten as he swallowed. “...My clan has a new First,” he said. “The woman who used to be our clan's Second is taking on my duties.”

“...Oh,” Dorian replied, heart sinking.

Lavellan's mouth twitched into a tense smile. “Do you know why I find the court so frustrating, Dorian?” he asked.

Dorian followed the lead of his false joviality. “Because they're a parcel of bastards?” he offered.

Lavellan smirked. “It's because my people do not have the luxury of succession crises,” he said. “We have a Keeper, a First and a Second. And plans for which clans will shelter the others if one of us is scattered. We would not survive if we didn't. We might not always agree – indeed, some of us may technically be at war with each other – but if the Dalish had a civil war on this scale, we would not survive as the same people.” He shrugged tightly. “I don't know if the Orlesians will change. The people of Val Royeaux continue to play the Game, as if the world is not burning around them. So we keep pushing, as if I'm not burning out.”

“I think things are already changing, Lavellan,” Dorian said softly. “Perhaps more than you think. The Chantry has split between those who wish to bury their heads and those who would rally to your cause.” He grimaced as he thought of Mother Giselle. “As much as I may not see eye-to-eye with many of the Southern Chantry faithful assembled under your banner, I think those who are here do mean to make this a better world.”

Lavellan watched him quietly, eyes alert. “Is that what your argument with Mother Giselle was about?” he asked carefully. “Her intentions?”

Dorian flushed. “Of course you heard about that,” he groaned. “No, it was about mine.”

Lavellan scowled. “She has no right--”

“I know,” Dorian replied calmly. He lowered his arm and clasped Lavellan's hand between both of his own, resting against Lavellan's knee. “You know how people like to gossip, even at Skyhold. Apparently I'm a terrible influence.” He still put on a grin. “Though, given that you've spent any length of time with me, you were aware of that.”

“Obviously,” Lavellan said faintly.

“She thinks we're, ah, inappropriately close,” Dorian said. “That I'm trying to put myself somewhere I can use you for power, riches, etcetera.”

“Inappropriately close,” Lavellan repeated tersely.

He knew he could have left things here. He wanted to run away. To _oh, look at the time, shall we get you to your dance lesson?_ And yet, here they were. Lavellan wasn't taking his hand by accident, wasn't looking at him like this by accident. And if he was… better for Dorian to find out now, than keep hurting himself by pining. He ran his thumb over Lavellan's rough knuckles. He didn't particularly want to repeat what he knew people had said about them. There was a comedy song, apparently, about how they were a Dalish elf and a Magister, and in Tevinter weren't things normally _the other way around_?

“It's not just her,” Dorian said. He lifted his eyes to meet Lavellan's. “People think we're… intimate.”

He wasn't expecting Lavellan to shrug. “That's not the worst thing people are saying about me,” he replied flatly.

“I'm not the best lover for your reputation,” Dorian said with a smirk, ignoring his thudding heart. Lavellan was still holding his hands. “If the rumours are true, that is.”

Lavellan smiled, flustered, and averted his eyes. “If you were Dalish, I'd know what to say to you, Dorian.”

Dorian knew what he meant. “There is a rune I would have shown you if you were Tevene,” Dorian said, in as casual a voice as he could manage. “It's usually a fire rune, but it has... other meanings.”

“I'm going to need you to elaborate,” Lavellan said.

There was always something more to say. But this time, it could wait until later. Dorian leaned across the library chairs, and placed a firm hand against Lavellan’s chest. Pushing him back against the fabric headrest, he kissed Lavellan's warm mouth.


	20. Chapter 20

Dorian slid from his chair and braced his other hand against the headrest as Lavellan's questioning fingers found his shoulders and pulled him closer. Dorian liked how Lavellan's hands felt. He was used to a certain level of rote unenthusiasm between himself and the objects of his attention, any other contact a formality before what they were both there for. A reassurance that things wouldn’t be taken further than was convenient. But Lavellan's touch was firm, his movements gentle. His hands lingered on Dorian's back, fingertips probing the edges of Dorian's shoulderblades. It reminded him of how Lavellan would trace his way across the map before they set off from camp in the morning, hands memorising the route.

Dorian lifted his head. Lavellan's face was soft, his eyelids fluttering.

“If I were Dalish, what would you say to me now?” Dorian whispered.

Lavellan laughed breathily. “I don't know,” he said softly. “What would you say to me, if I were Tevene?”

Dorian didn't want to say _let's get this over with, shall we?_ , even if that would have been the general idea in Tevinter. Because he didn't want things to end that quickly with Lavellan. Dorian smiled frankly, aiming for mischievously. “That's a secret,” he said instead.

Lavellan laughed again, and pulled himself forward to kiss Dorian again, the joyful curve of his mouth pressing against Dorian's lips. “I still need to go to my dance lesson,” Lavellan said.

“You still need to rest,” Dorian replied, trying to smother the seriousness in his voice.

“Afterwards,” Lavellan said. He leaned back against the headrest. Green eyes flickered from side to side, apparently unable to decide where on Dorian's face to rest. “We could do something nice,” he said, almost stammering.

Dorian snorted in amusement. “Were you this nervous when you closed the hole in the sky, or is it just me that has that effect on you?”

“Just you,” Lavellan replied. “I thought you were here to kill me when I first saw you,” he blurted out. “After-- after I closed the rift at Haven. Everything was red with fire, and there was you, surrounded by dead Venatori.” He paused, caught a calming breath. “And then you started talking, and you were... you.”

Dorian smiled gently. “I thought Cassandra might kill me, from her expression when she opened the door,” he said warmly. “You, though. I suppose I was expecting the Inquisitor to be more of a swaggering knight type. And then, there you were. The shortest person at the gate, dressed like a Fereldan peasant between your General and the Right Hand of the Divine in their clearly once very expensive armour.”

“I _am_ a peasant, Dorian,” Lavellan laughed.

“That's besides the point,” Dorian breezed. He stroked Lavellan's cheek in a half-circle, avoiding his vallaslin. “What I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted me, is that I understood, seeing you, why people followed you. You looked so sincerely serious.” His smile wavered. “I spent hours listening to people talk about you after Haven, before you staggered in from the avalanche. Stubbornly alive.”

“Please tell me that nobody spoke about the time I got lost in Val Royeaux at my vigil,” Lavellan grimaced.

Dorian smirked. “From the stories they were sharing, the Inquisitor was a rather bland, saintly type. I suppose the terrible hero complex was true, at least.” Dorian cupped Lavellan's face in both of his hands, and gently leaned in to kiss his forehead. “Although I must say,” he murmured. “I have always preferred Lavellan to the stories about the Inquisitor.”

Lavellan rested his chin on Dorian's shoulder, tight hands spreading across Dorian's back. “I noticed,” he whispered. And then he pulled back. “But I suppose we should get going,” he said quietly.

“Ah yes, your lessons,” Dorian said awkwardly, sitting up and straightening his shoulder-straps.

They both knew that Lavellan had made his way to the library on his bruised leg without assistance. But Dorian held his hand out anyway.

“With your terrible wounds, you must let me help you down the stairs,” he said.

“Of course, I couldn’t possibly go anywhere without help,” Lavellan replied evenly.

And as Lavellan rose, he anchored his arm around Dorian’s shoulder, and let Dorian guide him towards the stairs.

Dorian had expected stares. And they were some, as they crossed through the scaffold-cluttered main hall. It wasn’t true that Dorian didn’t like being looked at, he rather liked the attention most of the time. He just liked, generally, to have a purposeful idea of the impression he was giving. But with Lavellan’s obvious limp, most second glances seemed to be those of concern for the Inquisition’s noble leader, clearly somehow wounded in battle despite nobody having seen him limping yesterday.

Dorian wasn't sure what Lavellan thought this was, holding himself against Dorian's shoulder as they hobbled towards the same muddy corner of the training yard as before. Whether Lavellan considered this to be a purposeful cover for their closeness, as Dorian might have in Tevinter. Dorian had assumed the Dalish had an exact equivalent to Tevinter's codes, and that this was what Lavellan had been referring to, but he hadn't wanted to ask.

Whatever was happening between them, whether this was merely a pleasant indulgence to take Lavellan's mind from the Winter Court, or whether this was something else, Dorian intended to enjoy it while it lasted.

Dorian scanned for Josephine’s mustard yellow blouse as they arrived at the training yard, but she was nowhere to be seen. The others looked up as Dorian and Lavellan approached, and Dorian felt he should offer a story before anyone conjured their own.

“Did Cassandra ever apologise for hitting you in the face, Inquisitor?” Dorian asked.

Cassandra’s eyes widened. “I did!” she insisted.

Dorian smiled idly as Varric laughed. Lavellan slipped his arm down from Dorian’s shoulder and stood, still obviously favouring one leg.

“If this was a real duel, she would have cut your head off and tossed it across the ballroom floor!” Dorian cried, twisting his voice into an impersonation of Vivienne’s and throwing his arm out to mimic the bowling of an imaginary severed head.

“Really, Dorian, that would be absolutely barbaric,” Vivienne replied, arching a brow. “Whatever are they teaching nobles in the North?”

“I’ll be more careful next time, Cassandra,” Lavellan said calmly.

And they stood in uneasy silence, because Josephine was still nowhere to be seen.

“Well, nothing else for it,” Varric said, anchoring his hands to his hips. “Looks like I’m your dance teacher for today.”

“Would I not be a better choice?” Vivienne said.

“You can supervise me if you need to, Viv,” Varric replied, raising his palms.

“Well, I suppose we might as well get started then, my dears,” Vivienne said, striding across the yard towards Varric.

“Would it be better if we all changed partners, then?” Lavellan asked, glancing between Vivienne and Cassandra.

“Sure,” Varric said, shrugging loosely.

“It would be advisable to get used to dancing with different people, yes,” Vivienne elaborated.

“Alright, then,” Lavellan replied. And he turned, his face still and serious. “Dorian?”

“At some point, you’re going to have to dance with someone shorter than you,” Dorian replied briskly.

“That, as you have repeatedly pointed out, limits my options somewhat,” Lavellan replied dryly.

“I’ll dance with you next time, kid,” Varric piped up.

Lavellan grinned brightly. “Well, then?”

Dorian smiled nervously and raised his hand, touching palms with Lavellan. Varric bowed sarcastically, flourishing his hand towards Vivienne in imitation of a noble requesting a dance. Lavellan led Dorian by the palm to stand behind him, his pace uneven. Dorian dipped his palm to match him each time Lavellan staggered.

As they took their place in the formation, Lavellan swung himself close, standing on his toes to whisper against Dorian’s ear. “If you were Dalish, and I wanted to court you, this is how I might show you I was interested. Asking you to share a paired dance with me at one of our festivals.”

And Lavellan lowered himself and turned back to their dance positions, as if he hadn’t just done that. Dorian opened his mouth and closed it again, face turning hot, while Lavellan stared ahead idly. Cassandra stood with Solas, and Blackwall with Cole. Dorian pressed his palm firmly against Lavellan’s, focusing on that steady touch.

“Give me a minute and I’ll get Krem,” Bull said.

Dorian heard Bull took a few steps, and then stop.

“I’m terribly sorry for being so late.”

Dorian turned his head. Josephine’s hair was falling from her bun, and her face was flushed from rushing. She was holding a bottle in her hand.

“We received a diplomat who needed… immediate attention,” she panted as she crossed closer.

She was holding a bottle of Verchiel Red. A nice one. Verchiel, Gaspard’s territory.

“Is there a problem, Josephine?” Lavellan asked, turning to face her.

“Not as such,” she replied, coming to a halt. She held the bottle up in front of her, and met Dorian’s eyes. It meant exactly what he thought it might. “A little later than I had hoped, but… we have our invitation to the Winter Court. Courtesy of Duke Gaspard.”

Lavellan was the only one to break the pointed silence. “Good,” was all he said, before he turned back to the front of the set.


	21. Chapter 21

Extracting Lavellan from his evening's lesson had been relatively straightforward. Even Vivienne insisted that he should spend the rest of the day lying down with something cold pressed over his eye, given that it would hardly be seemly for him to show up to the Winter Court with a bruised face.

“Especially as it's your eye, darling,” she continued. “The type of mask you'd need to wear to disguise it simply isn't in fashion this season.”

“Yes, and I suppose one is generally discouraged from dusting blemish concealer into open wounds,” Dorian added dryly.

Lavellan laughed, hadn't stopped laughing and smiling since they'd started dancing.

Their hands close and their bodies apart, gazing _scandalously_ across the distance between them.

Dorian's heart had stirred with fear and desire, focusing on Lavellan's palm as a distraction from his mind's insistence that each pleasant moment be scrutinised, catalogued for future reminiscence after the end he hoped wouldn't come.

“I'll be heading back to my quarters, then,” Lavellan said. “Please come and find me if you need me.”

“You really can't help yourself, can you?” Dorian said, amused. Lavellan smiled guiltily, and shrugged.

Until they turned to leave, Dorian hadn't considered that it might have been him that someone needed.

“Dorian,” Josephine called.  Careful fingers smoothing a lock of ruffled hair behind her ear. “I was wondering if you might have some time to discuss the plans we were making before your departure for The Hinterlands.”

“Erm, I'm...” Dorian sputtered. He looked between them, Lavellan so warm and Josephine so frazzled.

Dorian was surprised that his urge was to help Josephine, and trust that Lavellan would make time for him another night. Dorian was used to thinking of his affections as something that needed to be consumed greedily and all at once, lest he miss his chance. And while the cautious voice in his head still suggested that if he didn't take the opportunity to visit Lavellan's quarters now, he might lose it, he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

Lavellan placed a hand on Dorian's elbow and smiled, green eyes bright. “I'll be fine,” he said. “You can check in on me when you're done, if you have time.”

Dorian nodded, and folded his palm over the hand of Lavellan's that rested on his arm. “Don't wait up for me,” Dorian said. “Make yourself some of your Dalish herbal tea, rest, and I'll see you in the morning.” He squeezed Lavellan's fingers, and then let go. “I expect you'll be lavished with enough attention from the medics, regardless.”

Lavellan ducked his head to laugh. “Yes, I expect so.”

He glanced back at Dorian as he left the training yard, and Dorian crossed towards Josephine.

“We can talk another time, if you would like to keep your plans,” Josephine said, nodding after Lavellan.

Dorian scoffed, and looked over his shoulder at the departing Inquisitor. “Please, Josephine. You've met him.” Lavellan had paused part of the way up the staircase, and was talking to Cullen. Dorian smiled softly at the familiarity of his distant gestures. “He would hardly be able to sit still if he thought he was keeping me from something important.”

“True,” Josephine replied warmly.

Dorian's eyes turned back to Josephine, and fell to the bottle of Verchiel Red, still clasped in her hands. “So,” he said, gesturing at the bottle as they began to walk towards the keep. “I assume _that_ was a surprise to you.”

“Not completely,” she said. She turned the bottle, pressing its label against her blouse. Dorian supposed that was wise, if she wasn't looking to broadcast a potential alliance with Duke Gaspard to their nosier visitors. “I had hoped for a more... neutral sponsor for the Inquisition's entry. But the smaller houses that desire an end to the war are not able to leverage enough invitations, and the larger houses that have been waiting to see how fate will fall are unwilling to risk their reputation on our behalf.”

“Yes, Maker forbid they endanger their hard-fought inactivity when the world is on fire,” Dorian said. It was hard not to be reminded of Tevinter when they talked about court. People like his father, who stood for nothing but their own status. “Has Gaspard asked for anything?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Josephine replied. “For all his... numerous flaws, Gaspard has nothing to fear from further chaos. He seems to hope that our presence will go some way to preventing the assembly from ending with a continued stalemate.”

“So, what do we have left to do?” Dorian asked.

Josephine counted across her fingers, shifting the bottle under her elbow. “The tailors will be arriving later today. I, of course, request your presence at the costuming appointment tomorrow morning. Dennet has sourced the carriages, and Cullen and Leliana are able to provide soldiers and scouts to accompany them.”

“Such a shame, I was looking forward to pitching tents and camping on the Empress’ lawn,” Dorian commented. He held out a hand and Josephine passed him the bottle, before continuing to count.

“Leliana's spies have been sending back information about Halamshiral's agents, and she has been collating thorough intelligence on the other known attendees.” Josephine paused as they passed through the main hall, which was hardly the place for useful gossip. Dorian was glad that Lavellan didn't seem to have been detained further, from the fact that he couldn’t see him still loitering on the way to his quarters.

Josephine closed the door to her study, and continued to stride towards her desk. “As far as we can tell, the menu seems relatively simple,” Josephine said firmly, as if she was answering a question Dorian had asked.

“Simple to eat, or simple to poison?” he asked jokingly.

“Simple to eat,” she replied seriously. She seemed about to continue, but stopped herself, smiling self-consciously. “Sorry, I fear I am rambling. You do not need to hear all this. Most everything is provisionally arranged, if not confirmed.”

Dorian scoffed. “I am yours for the evening, Ambassador. If you continue like this, I am at risk of being useful.”

Despite her earlier hurry, Josephine’s desk was clear of letters – whatever correspondence she had received from Gaspard was either locked in a drawer or under Leliana’s scrutiny. Josephine opened a drawer and lifted out a thick stack of mismatched notepaper, bound together with a thick ribbon. “All that is left to prepare are our people. Which, as you know, is what I would like your help with.”

This time, Josephine didn’t object when Dorian pulled a handful of papers closer. There was a menu with a seating plan, a wine list, a suggested order of music and entertainment for the evening

“It seemed fair that I should play the host,” Josephine said. “And for you to play the host’s brother-in-law, who comes from a more prestigious family.”

“And has a myriad of secretive reasons for attending,” Dorian continued, a smile playing across his lips. “A marked absence of Antivan wine despite it being rather fashionable at the moment, suggesting a failing in the host’s trade connections.”

“Well noted,” Josephine replied.

“Have you had a chance to speak to the others?” he asked. “I suspect some may need more preparation for this evening of artifice than myself.”

“Not so far,” she admitted, stacking the sheets into neat piles. “I was planning to meet with them over the course of the next few days, once I had discussed some of the more practical details with you.”

She traced her fingers over one of the stacks, and pushed it halfway towards Dorian. “These are the notes regarding your character,” she said. Her hand lingered. She looked up at him, carefully. “I know you are worried about the Inquisitor, Dorian. Particularly after yesterday.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Dorian replied automatically.

Josephine smiled gently. “I have been thinking,” she said. “If ordinary playing of the Game were enough to resolve the war, Orlais would not still be in this position. The Inquisitor is clever, he is learning well, and he has a… certain charm to him. I think that if he plays these well, being an outsider may indeed even be to his advantage.”

Dorian smiled frankly, and drew the papers closer. “If anything happens to him, I will burn whatever is left of Halamshiral after Gaspard’s trebuchets are done with it down and install Leliana as a benevolent dictator,” he said. “I’m certain she has the blackmail material to accomplish it.”

“I have no doubt that she does,” Josephine replied carefully.

Dorian buried his eyes in the papers, flipping through the sheaves with fast fingers. Notes on fashion, previous engagements with the strangers Dorian assumes will make up the rest of the party’s guests. “So,” he said. Quickly, loudly. “It seems Lord Caius has a mistress. Should I expect her to be in attendance?”


	22. Chapter 22

Josephine's desk was piled high with fabric samples, cast with a warm glow from her fireplace. Lavellan still shivered in the mountain keep's cold stone drafts. He was stripped down to his shirt and breeches, arms spread out to the side as the red-haired dwarven tailor tightened her measuring tape around his slender waist. She was one of Varric's old merchant contacts, Dorian had gathered. She made a quick scribble on the long ream of paper trailing from her wrist, and moved to measuring the length of Lavellan's legs.

Dorian and Vivienne were lounging in seats by the fireplace, sipping from small porcelain cups of Josephine's bitter black Antivan coffee. Pretending they hadn't spent the previous hour squabbling, in a refined manner of course, over which of them would get to wear a particularly fetching brooch Josephine had sourced for the practice salon's wardrobe selection. He had pocketed it when she wasn't looking, excusing it to an exasperated Josephine as a highly necessary accessory for truly conveying the opulent dignity of Lord Caius, the curling golden embellishments reminiscent of a lion's mane and thus hinting at his favour for the Valmonts, etcetera.

Dorian caught Lavellan's resigned eyes as the tailor found yet more measurements she needed to take, and smirked from behind his cup. Lavellan’s bruise had healed nicely, faded to a yellow-and-lilac patchwork under his brow.

“I'm afraid fitted clothes are in fashion this season, my dear Inquisitor,” Dorian said dryly. “The very tilt of trouser cuffs could make or break your diplomatic efforts.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Lavellan replied, disguising a smile.

“Leliana and I had a few ideas,” Josephine piped up, sitting straight in her chair to peek over the fabric. Leliana was slowly sifting through the samples, turning each to and fro and probing it with her fingers, as carefully as if she were tasting wine. “Given our... practical concerns and limitations.”

“Talk me through them,” Lavellan said.

“Now, one… generally has more than one month to prepare a new outfit for the most important event of the season,” Josephine began. “So, frankly, the fact that we have managed to employ a tailor at all is a victory of a sort. Leliana is sorting through the fabrics to select what we are likely to be able to acquire in quantity on short notice.”

“As well as what is appropriate,” Leliana added.

“Purple and green are out of the question, I assume,” Lavellan said.

“Correct, my dear,” Vivienne replied. “At least, should you wish to present a face of neutrality, which I believe would be wise regardless of who you are planning to favour.”

Lavellan shrugged, his eyes finding their way to Dorian with feigned casualness. “Well, Dorian did say those were the two coat of arms colours I should take care to remember.”

Dorian leaned back in his seat, and smiled sharply.

“As I expect Dorian also told you, do look out for anyone wearing those colours,” Josephine said brightly. “It may be subtle, such a pair of small earrings or the lining of a jacket, but the Court often uses fashion to suggest allegiance in a manner that can be denied as a coincidence should their position become disfavoured.”

“Sadly, a two-colour coat which can be turned about to suggest a shifting allegiance would be both impractical and hideous in these colours,” Dorian added smoothly. “Unless you wish to attend in the guise of a particularly provocative court jester.”

“One of our spies is already wearing such an outfit,” Leliana replied. “It wouldn't do for someone officially affiliated with the Inquisitor's party to match them.” Dorian couldn't read whether she was joking or not from her blank expression, and decided that either was just as likely.

“What we _were_ considering,” Josephine continued. “Is a uniform.” She stood and walked around her desk, unfurling a roll of draft paper and presenting Lavellan with a cluster of mannequin sketches. The tailor, apparently quite finished, scurried aside as Lavellan reached for the designs. “We thought that the absence of a mask would be a statement of sorts,” Josephine added. “It also means you will not have to cover your vallaslin.”

“Josephine, this looks remarkably wearable,” Lavellan grinned, peering over the paper. “Are you certain I can wear it at court?”

“Sometimes, the appearance of utility comes into fashion,” Leliana remarked coldly. “With many of Orlais’ brightest nobles involved in the war on one side or the other, military-style jackets have become a rather common sight.”

“And given our timeframe, we needed something that would appear refined without the need for rare materials or grand embroidery,” Josephine added. “Also, having your official party dress in the same style is... again, we realistically have only a little over a week before we leave. There simply isn't time for a bespoke fitting for all of your companions.”

Dorian hadn't even considered his own outfit. He had been thinking of other things, he supposed. He was disappointed, of course, that he wouldn't be able to acquire something more to his style, but he imagined he would still look rather fetching in the jacket.

“It also means that there will be no doubt who we represent,” Josephine added. “Cassandra, for example, will be seen as representatives of the Inquisition, not the Divine or the Pentaghasts.”

“And if they’re all the same colour, anyone wearing that colour could be seen as one of our supporters,” Lavellan mused.

“Exactly,” Leliana smiled.

“We thought it would be best to give you some say over the choice of fabric and colour, with our guidance,” Josephine said, gesturing towards the fireplace to include himself and Vivienne as part of _our_.

Lavellan stared over at the pile of fabric Leliana had set aside, still a sea of colour. “I’m not sure what’s fashionable,” he said nervously.

“What colours do you enjoy wearing, my dear?” Vivienne asked gently, as if she was coaxing a cat. “It should suit you best, after all.”

Lavellan glanced down at the chair in front of the desk, where he’d slung his frayed beige tunic and worn, tan leather jacket. “Brown?” he replied.

Josephine matched eyes with Dorian, grinning uneasily. Lavellan looked between the four of them.

“We may have something in bronze?” Josephine offered tensely. “Or russet?”

“You should select a… brighter colour, perhaps,” Dorian suggested. “Something… colourful, rather than natural.”

“Something that a peasant wouldn’t wear?” Lavellan replied sharply.

“Well, when you put it that way…” Dorian said, sucking air through his teeth. “…Well, yes.”

Lavellan smiled darkly. “I won’t offend the court by demonstrating the undyed colour of the fabrics they’re wearing.” He strolled towards the table, laying the design to the side and putting his hand against the pile of fabrics. “Red, then,” he said, pulling a blood-coloured swatch towards him. “And the braiding can be gold.” He tossed his glance over his shoulder, his grin almost sinister. “I’m told they’re considered rather romantic colours, by the discerning viewer.”

Lavellan turned, and held the swatch against his jaw. Dorian set his cup against the fireplace with a shaky clink. He looked almost as he had at Haven, cast in the red glow of the Venatori’s torches. “So I’ve heard,” Dorian replied. “Clearly, you’ve chosen something a shade away from Chantry red to suggest they approve of what they’re doing.” _Rather than simply to tease me,_ he didn’t add.

“Clearly,” Lavellan replied.

“And a rather fashionable colour this season,” Vivienne added. “Jewel tones are always fairly popular in winter.”

“Ah, and in the broadcloth,” Josephine noted, pacing around the table. “It is a sturdy fabric, so it should provide some basic defence if you find yourself in a duel.”

“The sash and lining should be a silk, I think,” Leliana suggested. “We have a supply of navy and of white, Inquisitor.”

“Whichever we have more of,” Lavellan shrugged.

“That will be the navy, then,” Josephine replied.

“Then if that’s everything, I will retire to my quarters to begin my study of Orlesian literature,” Lavellan said, flourishing the swatch like a handkerchief as he took a mocking bow. “Shall I send the others to be measured?”

Josephine plucked the swatch from his fingers as he straightened. “I will handle it, Inquisitor,” she said. “Please enjoy yourself, the reader Varric compiled seemed very comprehensive.”

“Remember that I shall be querying you on common allusions made to Freyette’s _The Sword of Drakon_ tomorrow, my dear,” Vivienne added.

“I recall,” Lavellan replied. And he paused, part of the way through crossing his room, to look back. “You all know where I’ll be if you need me,” he said. And his wounded eye passed nervously over Dorian before he darted from the room.


	23. Chapter 23

Most of the repairs to the main hall were finished by now, but the climb to Lavellan's quarters was still propped up by rickety scaffolding. As Dorian ascended the dusty staircase, crows flapped in and out of a gaping hole in the keep wall that had probably been a fairly neat window at some point in its life. Dorian rapped his knuckles neatly against the door, adjusting the stack of books balanced against his hip with his other hand.

"Come in!" Varric's voice called. Dorian pushed the door open, somewhat bemused. Varric was standing on a chair in the middle of Lavellan's rather spacious room, raising a blunt-tipped actors' sword in the air with one hand and clutching a script in the other. Lavellan himself was sprawled across the floor, upside-down to Dorian's view, clutching his heart as if he'd been stabbed.

Lavellan relaxed his expression of feigned agony and opened his eyes, straining his neck to look at the door as a tangled blonde halo of his hair spread across the rust-red rug. "Ah, Dorian," he said with an upside-down grin. "I'm glad you dropped in, I think Varric is tiring of playing most of the roles."

"Hey kid, you're supposed to be dead, remember?" Varric laughed. He looked across to Dorian. "You're just in time for my big speech, Sparkler."

Dorian closed the door behind him and crossed the rug to lay his books on Lavellan's bed. They were mostly textbooks, with a few... exceptions. Things he'd thought he might read if Lavellan needed quiet company rather than intimate chatter. "So, what dreadful genre of fate has befallen our fair hero today?” Dorian said. “A tragedy, or a farce?"

"Well, he asked for tragedy," Varric shrugged.

"I apparently have a very limited patience for Orlesian theatrical humour," Lavellan muttered, closing his eyes and re-affecting a corpselike disposition.

“Yes, I suppose it loses something when there are only two of you and neither of you are wearing masks,” Dorian replied, settling against one of the bedposts. “So, pray tell, which famous corpse from Orlesian literary history are you pretending to be today?”

“Oh, I'm Clarence de Riche,” he replied. “I have just been murdered by my scheming younger brother.”

Varric shrugged, turning the blunt sword aside. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm going to be arrested by the palace guard as soon as I'm done talking.”

“This play would be rather risqué in Orlais at the moment, would it not?” Dorian suggested. He placed his fingers against his collarbone and adopted a dramatic tone. “ _Ah, Clarence de Riche, the Dukedom's rightful heir, so viciously murdered by his brutal, dictatorial brother._ ” He smirked. “Or, _ah, Clarence de Riche, that foppish nitwit, how tragic that his far more practical brother never received the recognition he deserves_ , depending on how one plays it.”

“That's why I thought he should read it,” Varric replied, stepping down from the chair. “Or at least, the famous scenes. I'm trying to hit the parts any noble with a tutor can make jokes about as if they understand them. Orlesian comedy stock characters, overused speeches, that sort of thing.”

“You still haven't given your speech,” Lavellan piped up from the floor.

“Eh, Dorian can read it to you,” Varric said, tossing the script to the bed. “Ruffles said she'd need me this afternoon.”

“Such a shame,” Dorian drawled. “Cassandra assures me that nobody matches your talent for dissemblance. I shall consider us robbed of your performance.”

Varric laughed, low and warm. “I'm sure you'll manage without me.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, then?” Lavellan said, glancing after Varric.

“Sure thing, Dandelion,” Varric replied. “And you can ask me what I've just made you read.” He waved over his shoulder and slipped through the door, still laughing.

Lavellan seemed frozen for the moment, after the door clicked shut.

“I wasn't sure if you'd come,” he managed to say.

Lavellan's quarters smelled like pine needles and fresh leather.

Dorian smirked and knelt on the rug. Fingers pressing into the fabric, once rich but now threadbare. He wondered where Josephine had found this, whether it had rolled off the back of a merchant's wagon or whether it had been a slightly insulting gift. He still wanted one. It would smother the chill from the tower's floor. _So would Lavellan_ , his mind whispered, now that he was perched so close to Lavellan's warm body.

“Whatever am I going to do with you, Inquisitor?” Dorian murmured. He planted a hand beside Lavellan's other shoulder and stooped to kiss him at an angle. Lavellan's breath was soft against Dorian's lips, his fingers tracing through Dorian's hair. Lavellan opened his eyes languidly as Dorian leaned back.

“I'm never going to find out how this play ends, am I?” he whispered, smiling wickedly.

“And here I thought you would stop teasing me after I kissed you in the library,” Dorian whispered back.

He reached for Varric's script, purposefully slowly, his other hand still resting within touching distance of Lavellan. Dorian still felt his skin heat, and his blood rush, when Lavellan spoke to him like this. But oh, Lavellan always knew what he was doing. And so did Dorian.

“You know,” Dorian said idly, leaning casually against the bed as his hands closed around the script. “You once said that you wouldn't read to me alone unless you were courting me. Is that what this is, or does it depend on the material?”

It was Lavellan's turn to flush. “I suppose it is,” he stammered. His eyes darted to the ceiling, as if he was trying to recall a name he'd forgotten. “It's-- it's like what you say about the Orlesians,” he said quickly. “There's... plausible deniability. Up to a point. One of you might break things off, up until... that point, and not be thought badly of. Clans are small, so... if a relationship moves past that point and then breaks down, it can... cause a lot of problems.”

Dorian didn't have to question whether they would reach whatever _that point_ was, if things were to be as they had always been for him. He settled the script in his lap. “Courtship in Tevinter is rather more functional,” he said coolly, keeping his eyes on the pages. The margins, the gaps between the letters. “There's a lot of resentful, chaperoned strolling through estate gardens while one's parents compare bloodlines over iced tea on the terrace.”

“As always, Dorian, that is horrific,” Lavellan said, brows creasing. He reached a comforting hand towards Dorian's face, and Dorian caught it in his fingers.

“It was nothing, Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a grin.

“It wasn't, though, was it?” Lavellan insisted.

Dorian pressed his lips to Lavellan's knuckles in silence, as he wondered what to say. He wished he could think of his homeland without that scar finding its way to the surface.

His family had put him through such a preliminary courtship with the girl whose debutante ball he had attended, the one who had worn that same Orlesian-style ruffled dress for the rest of the season. They had spent the entire stroll making veiled snipes at each other's families. He had almost been sad he likely wouldn't see her again, after one or other set of parents had declined the match. Of all of the fiancées his parents had attempted, she was the one he would almost have liked to have as a friend. He wondered what it said about them, that he thought of that as an almost happy memory.

“I can court you in the manner of either of our people, if that's what you want,” Dorian said, cupping Lavellan's cold fingertips against his cheekbones. “Vivienne will chaperone you, I'm certain.”

“I mean, I would, Dorian,” Lavellan scowled. “But I'm not letting you distract me that easily.”

Dorian nodded distractedly, pulling the script into his eyeline with his free hand. “I don't know what I can say, Inquisitor,” he said. “I have a lot of good memories of my homeland. I wouldn't choose to be from another place. But... you already know that I wish things were different.”

Dorian pulled Lavellan closer, and Lavellan let him. He held Lavellan's warmth against his chest, tighter than was wise, and Lavellan clutched him as if he was something precious. Dorian adjusted the pages, and read over Lavellan's shoulder. “ _Now the time for kind men is at an end_ ,” Dorian murmured. “Although one might choose to read it in a more sinister register, of course. Even farcically, depending on how one wishes to play the subsequent arrest by the palace guard. _Now the time for kind men is at an end. I care not if I am known for cruelty, long as I am known, in equal measure, for power._ ”


	24. Chapter 24

It had taken another morning's work, but the library was finally back in some semblance of order, albeit with large gaps where the majority of useful texts on Orlais would be returned when he, Leliana and Josephine were finished with them. Dorian had even taken the tranquil around the shelves and explained the Tevinter archival system to her, in the hope that she might be able to repair some of the damage the next time a flock of Orlesian scholars descended upon the Inquisition's library while he was away. He had attended a second fitting with Josephine's dwarven tailor, picked out a suitable pair of boots for the _salon_ , and supplied a handful of additional names for Leliana's list of Tevinter mages that could plausibly have been in Orlais for the last year.

And now, Dorian found himself back in the library, and at a loose end.

He had searched, feigning nonchalance, for books on Dalish customs. _For research on some of Ambassador Briala's allies_ , he had been prepared to tell anyone who asked. But really, so that he would have some idea of what Lavellan could be expecting from him. So that he might be able to surprise him. Lavellan had spoken before of how he missed his clan's rituals – perhaps this game of courtship might, in some small way, cheer him in that regard. Lavellan had smiled, and was gentle, the rest of the evening they’d read together, and Dorian rather liked seeing him like that, particularly when it was all for him.

Such anthropological minutae were of little interest to the composers of the Inquisition library's books on the Dalish, however. Exalted March-era military records describing the terrifying and alleged barbarity of Dalish warriors, and toothless fairytales of the ancient elves as a quaint historical people, all hastily donated by nobles wishing to demonstrate a base acknowledgement, and by implication acceptance, of who and what Lavellan was. Apparently they had also received rather a lot of literature on the histories of great circle mages, given that there was hardly any written material on Dalish magic in specific.

Still, Dorian had lifted some of the stranger ones in case Lavellan might get some entertainment from them. The record describing Halla as vicious, carnivorous war beasts had particularly amused him. And he set aside anything that referred to Halamshiral while it was still an elven settlement for Leliana's people to scry through, in case they mentioned any secret passages or some such that could be of use.

And that left him with Tevinter’s idea of courtship, again. Wholly unsuited to what he and Lavellan were going through, but he supposed adopting the Orlesian tradition would be somewhat inauthentic to both of them, if a rather intriguing cultural teaching tool. It could be entertaining, at least. Perhaps he should suggest it.

He thought of what he’d said to Lavellan about Tevinter the night before. The matchmaking wasn’t the worst of what he’d had to endure, but it had certainly been a symptom. Even if he had been allowed to court men and take, for example, an apprentice or distant niece as an heir, he wouldn’t have been allowed to court Lavellan. Because he was an elf, because he was an outsider, because he had no noble lineage. The codes Dorian was used to would still apply – but would apply slightly more respectably, as if he were an Altus sleeping with a non-mage, a servant, or lover of weak pedigree, without diluting his family’s bloodline.

He tried to wonder, more pleasantly, if Lavellan would want a gift. Courtship in Tevinter occasionally involved the formal presentation of trinkets. The rings and necklaces his mother wore, the illuminated illustration of her family tree that had hung in the entranceway of his family home. Perhaps the Dalish had a similar tradition. Or perhaps they would have considered such things a waste, in some way.

Or, indeed, perhaps he was simply overthinking things. He had made his offer to Lavellan as a distraction. Perhaps Lavellan had accepted it sarcastically, and he shouldn't trouble himself too much with the details. Dorian didn't like how much his mind was racing over this, was aware that it had been running in circles since he’d returned from his visit to Leliana.

Perhaps he should take a break from haunting the library. Dorian put the books he wasn’t taking back where they belonged, adjusted his belts and satchels, and headed for the stairs.

When he had left, Josephine looked as if she would be busy with the tailor for the foreseeable future. And he could find Lavellan and Varric, certainly, but he felt it best for Lavellan to have the opportunity to miss his presence. Turns of feigned coldness and playing at disinterest after intimate moments suited how he wanted to present himself better than clinging lovesickness. It made him feel like a dog. He felt that should he get too close, Lavellan would be able to tell what he'd spent the morning fretting over, and find it pitiable. That wasn't how he wanted a lover to look at him.

And that left a stroll through the courtyard. Visiting the new array of merchants that had arrived this morning, keen to offload late-season fashion on the Inquisition. Dropping in on Cassandra to tell her where he had gotten to in the book she had lent him. As he wandered down the stone steps, he spotted Blackwall in conversation with one of the soldiers. _You could go back to the tavern_ , a voice reminded him.

He was surprised at how nauseating the concept seemed to him this afternoon. When he thought of not just Blackwall, but Lavellan, Josephine or Cassandra finding him in the staggering state he was liable to get into by himself, the shame burned like acid. Keeping his eye fixed on the distant ramparts as if he hadn't noticed the Warden, Dorian hurried onwards.

“Dorian.”

Dorian froze at Blackwall's call. He turned slightly. Unfortunately, the Warden was walking towards him. “Ah. Warden Blackwall,” Dorian said stiffly. “So lovely to see you. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company today?”

Dorian grinned nervously. He didn't know why. There was nothing Blackwall could possibly be here to chide him for, unless he had done something he'd forgotten late in the evening at Josephine's wine tasting. Which was rather unfortunately plausible.

“I wanted to have a few words, Dorian,” Blackwall said carefully.

“And what would those words be, Blackwall?” Dorian replied, aware of the sharpness creeping into his voice. Even recently he had thought that there would come a time when this pre-emptive fear of disgrace would leave him. After he proved himself through his magical talents, after he left his family home, after he left Tevinter, after he found some purpose, after he stopped Alexius, after he argued things out with his father, after he knew Lavellan wanted him. So far, there had been no easy cure. “I would be happy to advise you on your conduct at Josephine's salon, if that's what you desire.”

Blackwall shook his head. “It's about something else,” he said, folding his arms slowly. It was his loss. Dorian couldn't think of a man less suited for the intellectual demands of artifice than Warden Blackwall. He wouldn’t be surprised if he forgot to answer to his false name. Blackwall folded his arms. “I heard a little about what happened with your father, Dorian.”

Dorian froze. “That's none of your business,” he said automatically. He wondered how it had spread. One of the soldiers that had come to Redcliffe with them? Mother Giselle's people? And beyond that, he supposed, news of what was happening to House Pavus might be known to merchants who had travelled to Tevinter, eager to sell gossip to the Inquisition's hungry faithful, or to their hungrier antagonists.

“I know,” Blackwall replied, his face falling into that irritating expression of gentle seriousness. “You're estranged from him. I don't need to know more.”

“I can't imagine why you feel you can give me a lecture on a subject you admit you know little of,” Dorian snapped.

Blackwall sighed heavily. “I'm not going to lecture you, Dorian. We've had our problems, you and I, but losing your family – it's a difficult thing to go through. If you need to get something off your chest – you can talk to me.”

“Is that all?” Dorian said snippily, and he wasn't sure why he said it. His recently habitual check of _would you be embarrassed if Lavellan saw you acting like this_ was coming back with an easy _yes_.

“Yes,” Blackwall sighed, uncrossing his arms. “That's all. I’d do the same for any of our people, Dorian.”

Dorian's face tightened. Despite all he felt he'd changed for the better during his time with the Inquisition, he was painfully aware that he was still a shipwreck by anyone’s standards, his basest instincts breaking him upon the same rocks over and over, and a few months of being out of the frantic, fearful state of paranoia he’d lived in since his departure from Tevinter had yet to change that. “Thank you,” Dorian said suddenly, and stalked off without waiting for Blackwall to respond.


	25. Chapter 25

The last times Dorian had been near Skyhold's gate, it had been as part of a procession. The place was, thankfully, somewhat less busy as merely a marketplace. While the quartermaster handled most provisions, weapons, etcetera – indeed, Dorian thought he spotted him arguing with a fletcher at the far end of the market as he came down the steps – there were still stalls selling to what passed for the general public at Skyhold. Faded pink and blue canopies huddled to shelter their stock from the angry clouds threatening to burst overhead, and soldiers and servants wandered between the stalls, the dirt and dried grass path beneath mulched and muddy from the heavy footfall.

Dorian wasn't expecting to feel homesick, given that this was hardly Minrathous. There was no marble at all, for example. But this still reminded him of wandering the markets with Felix, spending Alexius’ money on cheap books and expensive accessories.

He imagined that most of his possessions were still in trunks somewhere in his family's estate, possibly somewhat moth-eaten by this point if they hadn’t already been disposed of. He remembered his father making a show of disposing of some of the gaudier baubles as retribution for his _debauchery_. Perhaps he torched the rest after the humiliation of his departure, before the regret started to sink in.

Dorian had taken a rather eclectic selection of what had been to hand in the blind panic of his escape, and sold most of it across the leaner months of the past few years to pay for his various lodgings. Apparently, there wasn't always stable employment for a decadent academic of strange reputation from a country most of the rest of Thedas would rather not have dealings with. He had occasionally wondered if he might see any of it amongst the stacks of last year’s fashions when he came to the market. He’d sold some particularly flattering jackets that were still in good condition, among other things.

Dorian stepped from the end of the stone stairs and into the crowd, and cringed as the ground squelched beneath his travelling boots, a dampness creeping through. He supposed they'd finally worn through. They'd at least given a decent showing, first – this was the pair that had seem him through his abscondance from the Imperium and his mad dash to Haven, as well as months of hiking all over the countryside with the Inquisition.

Josephine was right, of course, even if she hadn’t realised what she was right about. Dorian had a stipend for his work now. He didn't need to live as if he was coasting on the dregs of gold his most recently pawned heirloom had earned him. Given that he had come down here to take the sort of break he was always pestering Lavellan to have, perhaps he could take the indulgence of acquiring a new pair before he returned to research and reports for the rest of the evening. The shoes he'd set aside for the salon were hardly appropriate for the ride to Halamshiral, and he didn't relish the idea of having to break in the stiff boots of their new uniform in such a manner. If he was going to spend the entirety of the Winter Court limping, he'd rather it be for a more exciting reason than blisters.

There was a second-hand book stall, which he lingered at habitually. He thumbed the yellowing paperbacks, and cursed not having brought down the books he’d finished, or at least the ones that survived the Frostbacks, to sell back. Perhaps he would create a section in the library for them, if only for the private entertainment of watching the stuffier Chantry researchers that flapped around the library like bats come across them. _The Maiden and The Magister_ would certainly raise some eyebrows. He spotted the cover of another terrible Tevinter bodice ripper and picked it up immediately, along with another few salacious romances that he thought looked particularly amusing, and handed the merchant a palmful of coins.

As Dorian was putting them in his satchel, he couldn’t help but feel that he was being watched. He was so used to this feeling by now that it scarcely bothered him anymore. He turned casually, to shoot a glance over his shoulder. Cassandra quickly looked away, and Dorian realised it hadn't been him she was looking at but the stall. He smiled. It was hard to describe her as a friend, per se, but he supposed he was pleased to see her. She slipped through the crowd, and he decided it would be at least briefly amusing to catch up.

Crossing the stream of people to meet her wasn’t difficult, considering that people generally tried to stay out of both of their ways.

“Too busy for you to be seen buying scandalous literature?” Dorian said breezily, almost having to jog despite his height to keep up with her rapid strides.

“Dorian,” she said sternly, evading his easy smile. “I was just here for – supplies.” She brandished a list, in what he recognised as Leliana's handwriting, as if it were a blade. He knew better than to question why this wasn’t going through the quartermaster. Leliana in particular liked to make her material needs difficult to track through one source for anyone watching.

“Ah, of course,” he replied. “She once asked me to buy a dozen bars of soap in three very particular scents, I never did find out why.”

“Yes, I believe I remember what that would have been for,” Cassandra said. She didn’t elaborate. She did slow her pace, however, apparently relaxing somewhat. “You were… correct, however. I was… considering seeing the rest of the market while I was here.” Her eyes narrowed. “I am in no hurry to return to Josephine’s tailor.”

“And here I thought you would be used to the pinching and pinning, given our shared aristocratic history,” Dorian said idly. He straightened, trying to grasp a curious glance at what Leliana was after this time.

“Quite the opposite,” Cassandra muttered. “I dislike being fitted for armour, but that at least has some purpose. I spent many more hours of my childhood being stitched into ridiculous layers of taffeta than I care to recall. Such a waste of time. It was another reason to be grateful when I began my training as a Seeker.”

“Perhaps I had more time to get used to it,” Dorian shrugged. “I gather our magical institutions are rather more well-heeled than the rest of Thedas, our dear Vivienne and her proteges excepted of course.”

They had crossed out of the other end of the market, now. Cassandra came to a halt. He could begin to tell the difference now. She still looked, to the unfamiliar eye, rather like she was about to scold him, but he could tell she was actually, by her standards, in a fairly good mood. “I have been telling myself that, no matter the outcome, I will be at least a little relieved when this is all over.”

Dorian knew he’d thought the same, for Lavellan’s sake at least. “I would like to tell you, smugly perhaps, that I would be perfectly happy to still be drinking wine in the Halamshiral gardens in two weeks’ time. But so long participating in the Grand Game, no matter how sparkling the company, would quickly turn nightmarish.” He smiled frankly. Cassandra, through her enquiries, would know enough of his history to understand what he was about to say without questions. “The Inquisition attracts all manner of outsiders, pariahs and undesirables, and I am no exception.”

Cassandra nodded silently. “A homeland is not always the home we wish it to be. Some of us find such belonging elsewhere.”

“Yes, quite,” Dorian murmured. “Although, don’t you suppose Nevarra might become a homeland you could be proud of, if it changed?”

Cassandra shook her head. “Much of my family believed so, and it ended in their deaths. I have no desire to return, when the Maker has given me another calling.”

“Of course,” Dorian replied. But that stubborn thread still tugged at his heart, the one that still led to Tevinter no matter how many wrongs had been done on its behalf.

Cassandra unfolded Leliana’s list again, drawing a line under the topic. Dorian hadn’t expected to be glad that Cassandra was a woman of so few words.

“Actually, perhaps you could help me with this, Dorian,” she said with a frown. “Apparently we require very specific fabrics that I have no knowledge of.”

“I am at the Inquisition's service,” Dorian replied glibly, tilting his torso as if he was beginning to bow. Cassandra handed him Leliana’s requirements, and led him back into the market.


	26. Chapter 26

The night's heavy raindrops rapped against the tower's roof and walls, and a firm, careful knock sounded against the door to Dorian's quarters. Lavellan was standing in the hallway when Dorian opened the door, weather dripping from his hair and a wicker basket hanging from his arm. Dorian pulled him impulsively close, pressing his rain-damp chest against his own, and then let him pass without a word. Hoping, he supposed, that speaking only behind the closed door would grant some illusion of privacy.

“I was wondering if you'd had time to take dinner this evening,” Lavellan said conversationally, placing the basket on the bed.

“I had a rather pleasant meal with Cassandra, actually,” Dorian replied smoothly, tracing Lavellan's steps. “But you clearly haven't. Please, take that sodden jacket off and eat something. I acquired some delightful Orlesian literature at the market this afternoon, and was rather looking forward to reading it to you.”

Lavellan shrugged the soaked tunic from his shoulders and let Dorian peel the clinging sleeves from his shivering arms. “ _The Tragedy of the Chevalier's Lover_ ,” Lavellan read, tilting his head to squint at the book Dorian had left on the bed. “That sounds absolutely filthy, Dorian.”

“Yes, and absolutely more read across court than whatever Vivienne has been questioning you on,” Dorian said, hanging Lavellan's tunic on the back of his chair. “Perhaps you can bond with a Duchess over it.”

When he turned back around, Lavellan had slung his boots off and was sitting cross-legged on the bed. “Do make yourself comfortable, Inquisitor,” Dorian remarked, arching an eyebrow and smothering a laugh.

“Thank you, I will,” Lavellan replied, smiling dryly. He opened the basket as Dorian sat across from him. It was layered with neat slices of bread, shiny red apples and generous pieces of cheese.

“I didn't know you were on the kitchen's good side,” Dorian replied, settling restlessly against the headboard.

“I've had to go up to apologise personally for Sera's antics enough times,” Lavellan shrugged. “They think I'm a nice young man.”

“An unfortunate mistake on their part,” Dorian teased. Lavellan took a bite of his bread, and Dorian wondered if he saw Lavellan shiver again, his wet shirt in Dorian’s cold room. He told himself, fruitlessly, not to fuss.

Lavellan swallowed. “Dorian, you’re pulling a face,” he said. “What are you thinking?”

Dorian flushed. “I’m thinking that I must be out of practice ahead of returning to court if you can read me so easily,” he replied.

“Perhaps I’ve just learned to do so,” Lavellan grinned easily.

“I’m also thinking that if you catch cold under my supervision, Josephine will have my head,” Dorian sighed. He stood and paced around to the foot of the bed, Lavellan's eyes following him in amused bewilderment.

“You’re very sweet sometimes, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly. “I promise not to tell.”

“After what happened with Cassandra, I’m not sure I can trust you with my harmless secrets,” Dorian breezed, snatching the black silk dressing gown from the bedpost. He had been used to owning silks when they were, so to speak, new. This one had been threadbare and greying at the seams when he’d acquired it, but the state of his tower dwelling had still led him to appreciate it.

“Has she still not forgiven me?” Lavellan asked.

“I think after the duelling incident the pair of you are even,” Dorian replied, perching behind Lavellan.

Dorian didn’t know what to do with how easy it was. To talk to him, to be with him. Forgetting himself, he sunk against Lavellan as he wrapped the gown around his shoulders, resting his face against Lavellan's neck and his arms against Lavellan’s collarbone. Lavellan dusted the crumbs from his fingers and crossed his arms over his shoulders, meeting Dorian's hands where he held him.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, voice thick and sweet as treacle. “Is everything alright?”

Dorian laughed gently against Lavellan’s neck. “I should be the one asking you that, Lavellan.  You know, Cassandra actually asked me to check on you ahead of tomorrow's training. She thinks you might be bravely hiding an injury.”

“And I see that you agreed with her,” Lavellan smirked.

“Well, it’s the kind of thing you might do,” Dorian replied.

He lifted his head to kiss Lavellan's warm cheek, near his wounded eye. Lavellan didn't flinch. He slid his closest hand along Lavellan’s leg, to touch his bruised knee. Lavellan didn't pull back. Not the methods Cassandra would have suggested, but Lavellan was close and Dorian wanted him to be closer. Lavellan moved his hand slowly, tentatively encouraging Dorian’s fingers to press against his thigh.

“I confess,” Dorian whispered, hand tingling with the sensation of closeness. He lowered his voice, to smother his rare nerves. “I scarcely know what to do with you now that I no longer have to play coy.”

“Who said you had to stop?” Lavellan asked.

“True enough,” Dorian replied. He did know what he’d normally do. Dorian had a lot of _imagination_ , but generally very little time to act upon it. Whether or not it was true, he enjoyed the joint illusion that he and Lavellan had as much time as they needed to take. The looming threats just out of reach of harming them, but close enough to override anything that might separate them. As if Dorian was his port in an eternal storm.

Dorian kissed Lavellan’s neck and took his hand away, one careful finger after another. Lavellan he would savour slowly, like a decent wine. Lavellan he would not rush, even if it felt like playing games compared to his usual practice.

“Regardless of what I might or might not do, you should eat something,” Dorian said, leaning away and adjusting the dressing gown on Lavellan’s shoulders. “I shall read to you, so you are not bereft of my entertainment.”

“I might enjoy that,” Lavellan replied, feigning mildness.

Dorian swung his legs on to the bed, resting his knees against Lavellan’s, and reached for the book. Lavellan put his arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown and took a piece of bread, as Dorian cleared his throat and began to read.

Lavellan leaned closer, soft in the silk dressing gown against Dorian’s skin. He laughed, and exclaimed, and asked questions through Dorian’s reading.

“It’s a euphemism, it means she’s a virgin,” Dorian had explained.

Lavellan had almost choked on a piece of cheese as he snorted.

Every time Dorian paused, the storm outside lashed harder. Dorian hoped the roof wouldn’t leak again. Lavellan eventually put the basket aside, and nestled closer. Dorian finally began to lose his voice, and put the book down at the end of a chapter. It ended with a cliffhanger, the Chevalier riding off to fulfil some knightly duty and leaving his weeping lady behind. Lavellan was staring towards the slit window, watching the darkness.

“Should I go?” he asked. “Given that it’s late.”

_And people might talk_ , neither of them needed to say. Dorian stroked Lavellan’s hair, and listened to the rain.

“I would hate to send you out into that,” Dorian said softly. “Perhaps you could stay a little longer.”

“Perhaps I could,” Lavellan replied. He sank against Dorian, and wound his arms tightly around his shoulders. Dorian closed his eyes, and spent some moments dwelling in the fizzing orange of his eyelids, the warmth of being held and nothing else. When he opened them again, the room seemed cast in cool blue. Tonight, Lavellan was his alone.

“Now, you’re aware of some of my sordid history,” Dorian said. “I would rather like to ask about yours, although I’m aware it’s… a delicate topic at the moment.”

Lavellan shook his head against Dorian’s shoulder, eased himself away so that he could meet Dorian with his serious eyes.

“Everyone says that,” Lavellan said. “And it’s true that I’m… worried about them at the moment. But I would like to talk about them.” His wide mouth flickered into a frail smile. “I trust the woman who was my Second and is now their First, I trust Leliana and her people. And I would like to remember my clan in stories, as I would like to think they are remembering me. So ask, Dorian. Anything.”

Dorian snorted, and looked aside. “When you put it as grandly as that, what I was going to ask seems faintly ridiculous.”

Lavellan leaned to follow Dorian’s averted gaze, so far that he ended up lounging on his elbow. He reached towards Dorian’s face with his free hand and touched his chin with a curved finger, his smile mischievous. “Oh Dorian, as if I didn’t assume you wanted to ask me something unseemly. Please, ask whatever crude question about my upbringing you were thinking of.”

Dorian batted at Lavellan’s hand and laughed. “If you insist, Inquisitor.” Dorian lowered himself to lie beside him, mirroring the Inquisitor’s languid pose by propping his head up with his hand and settling his elbow against the pillow. “I’m not the first man you’ve been with, am I?”

Lavellan let out a sputtering laugh and shook his head with a grin. “No. I expect I had less time for relationships around my duties than you have described having around your studies, but… no. You aren’t.”

“Dear Lavellan, I think you may be getting relationships and _relations_ mixed up,” Dorian replied lightly. “But please, we’re speaking about your indecorous history, not mine.”

Lavellan kept laughing, and flopped down on Dorian’s pillow, turning his gaze to the ceiling. He raised one of his arms above him, spread his fingers, and stared through the gaps. “I told you about Clan Alathiel’s Second, the storyteller?” he said.

“Yes, I do recall you mentioning her,” Dorian replied. He stayed where he was, peering down at Lavellan as he gazed at some distant point.

“She had a younger brother that was closer to my age,” Lavellan continued. “He had hair like autumn leaves, and bow-calloused hands.” He sighed. “We didn’t do things properly, exactly, because we were in different clans. I was much more serious about it than him, but… I was also the one that never had time for him.”

“That’s adorably unsurprising,” Dorian commented. “You’re still dreadfully serious.”

Lavellan smiled sadly, and closed his hand. “His sister was furious with him on my behalf when he broke things off with me. I hadn’t realised she considered me a friend, rather than just a reader. It… made things a little easier, I supposed. She was very kind.”

He lifted his eyes to meet Dorian’s, before shying back to the ceiling. “I’m still terrible at finding time for people I care about,” he said quietly. “I’m trying to be… better this time.”

Dorian caught Lavellan’s hand as he lowered it, pulling it gently towards his chest. “There’s really no need,” Dorian replied. He smiled weakly, aiming for glib but landing on tremblingly honest. “You’re already better than I deserve.”

“I’m not,” Lavellan said hoarsely. He rolled over to take Dorian’s face, press his lips tightly against him. “Everyone says that. I must not need them, I’m so responsible.” He laughed strangely, wildly, tearfully. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not,” Lavellan breathed between kisses.

Dorian held Lavellan close, fingers grasping the folds in his dressing gown, kissing him desperately. Neither of them said it, _you should stay_ , or _I should stay_. But Lavellan didn’t leave, and Dorian didn’t him want to.

At some point, Dorian fell asleep, limbs still tangled with Lavellan’s. Holding, and being held. Needing, and being needed.


	27. Chapter 27

Dorian had awoken like a painting of a penitent, face against Lavellan’s chest and fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt. And had lain there a while, Lavellan still asleep and Dorian torn between not wanting to wake him and not wanting to be found in a state of intimate vulnerability by the serving girl that brought him hot shaving water in the morning.

The decision was, eventually, made for him.

He hadn't gotten up. Had instead spent his time watching how Lavellan still frowned in his sleep, and lifted his hand to smooth his lover's brow. Lavellan had stirred gently with the knock on the door.

Dorian as a rule, hadn’t stayed the night after previous encounters, even after he'd left Tevinter. He remembered one of the rare times that he had, daydreaming incorrectly that perhaps this time would be different. The ambitious Laetan he'd been seeing had shoved him awake at the sound of the servants' footsteps, and ordered Dorian to hide under the bed. He'd felt like filth, lying amongst the dust and lost socks and trying not to breathe too loudly. And yet he still felt the instinct to do the same to Lavellan, and pushed it down, repulsed by himself.

He opened the door to take the hot water, lounging casually against the door as if there was nothing of interest in his room. If the girl had glanced through and noticed Lavellan, he expected Sera to know by the time he next saw her.

And Dorian found that the idea didn't terrify him so much, anymore. Sera, certainly, was vocal enough in her preference for lovers that he knew she wouldn't bat an eyelash at finding Dorian and the Inquisitor to be _similar_ , so to speak. But even Cassandra, Josephine, if they didn't already suspect, if Lavellan hadn't already mentioned it to them as if it wasn't a problem – he couldn't imagine them being disgusted anymore. His paranoia had become a habit more than anything, a set of motions he was used to performing.

Lavellan had awoken properly when he'd returned to sit on the bed. Pulled Dorian closer and kissed him with morning bleariness, before reaching for his boots.

“I suppose I should go back to my quarters and change,” Lavellan said. “We're supposed to be meeting Cullen soon.”

“I think, considering the occasion, you should be learning to fight in the most formal clothing possible,” Dorian replied with a shrug. “Certainly, Josephine will be upset if you immediately tear your uniform against Cassandra's training blade, but I expect you'll find some way to ruin it part-way through court regardless.”

Lavellan laughed, and took a slice of the leftover bread to eat on the way back to his room.

“Lavellan,” Dorian called, as Lavellan reached for the door.

Lavellan swallowed, and turned to look at him. Dorian smirked and held out Lavellan's stiff jacket, now mostly dry after last night's storm. “Might I have my dressing gown back, my dear Inquisitor?”

Snickering as he shrugged the garment from his shoulders, Lavellan held Dorian's robe out to him and snatched his jacket back playfully. He stroked Dorian's cheek before he left, and Dorian smiled as he turned to shave.

\---

The dungeons were empty except for their party, the usual darkness of the cramped corridors lit dimly by lanterns. From the way the others took their places without question, Dorian supposed that they must have trained together like this at Haven, before he'd joined. And, he supposed, before the Inquisition got too large for such things. Cullen paced back and forth beneath one of the dangling lanterns, one arm behind his back and the other gripping the hilt of his sword. In his full aspect as the Inquisition's general, rather than as the quiet-humoured man that always lost at cards whenever Dorian and Varric managed to convince him to join in.

“Josephine would like me to begin by saying that she expects you won't have to fight anyone at Halamshiral,” Cullen said, smiling dryly. He came to a halt, and directed his address towards Lavellan, who stood at the front of their squashed assembly. “But if you do, you'll most likely be indoors, in tight corridors, and won't have access to your usual weapons. Considering that most of your recent engagements have been outdoors, the Inquisitor and I agreed that we should prepare his entourage to fight in close quarters.”

“Preferably without causing any diplomatic incidents after the fact by damaging any of Halamshiral's priceless historical furniture,” Vivienne added.

Lavellan sighed as he rolled his shoulders. “I shall endeavour to appraise the curtains before I tear them from the windows as an improvised weapon.”

“I can tell you what I think is gaudy enough that it _should_ be destroyed,” Dorian suggested with a smirk.

“A most helpful offer, Dorian,” Vivienne replied. “I can advise you that, contrary to your people's sensibilities, or perhaps your sensibilities in particular, we generally consider black leather, red wine stains, or anything covered with dragons to be passé.”

“Noted,” Dorian replied. “I shall ensure to merely leave everything that's been entirely dipped in gold, embroidered with the empress' face, or encrusted with jewels, all of which are and will forever be considered less garish.”

Cullen cleared his throat.

“I'm glad we could come to this understanding,” Vivienne said, with a purposefully shallow curtsey that would read as snide to perhaps only the two of them, given Josephine’s absence and Cassandra’s apathy.

“Vivienne, how _cutting_ ,” Lavellan said.

Dorian laughed, and Vivienne looked positively proud. Cullen cleared his throat again.

“Orlesian furniture aside,” Cullen sighed.

“Oh, I assure you that Halamshiral has the finest furniture from across Thedas, not simply Orlesian,” Dorian said.

“It's an elven building, for example,” Lavellan added. He smiled sympathetically at Cullen. “But, fine furniture from across Thedas aside.”

“Thank you,” Cullen replied, half-laughing in exasperation. “I swear, you lot don't do this to Josephine.”

Dorian could sense a half-dozen bitten tongues, his own included, primed with witty remarks. Cullen began to pace again, carefully, as if his footsteps were their own answer.

“I am aware that some of you have more experience fighting indoors, and with weapons small enough to conceal, than others,” Cullen said, casting a glance to a grinning Sera. “And that some of you are... less reliant on having a weapon than others.” A look to Dorian, and the other mages, this time. “Leliana tells me we may be able to smuggle weapons in throughout the night, but if we can, then so can any assassin. Regardless, it's important to learn to fight with what we can carry, and expect anyone who might attack you to have at least the same – daggers in boots and poison-tipped darts.”

Dorian had a lot of worries about what might happen to Lavellan at the Winter Palace, but what might happen if he was attacked hadn't been one of them. There were too many things that Lavellan wasn’t already good at to worry about that the thought of him getting in a fight had seemed relievingly entertaining, actually. The idea of some fool assassin grabbing him, and being struck by lightning like a sinner punished by the Maker in an ancient Imperium morality play.

“So, does that mean we’re allowed to take poison into court?” Sera asked innocently. Cullen passed along the line, handing out wooden daggers and moving them into pairs.

“Leliana asked that you let her know if you’re planning to poison anyone so she doesn’t have to work out who did it,” Lavellan said flatly.

“Before, or after?” Sera asked.

“Both,” Lavellan replied. Cullen moved him to face Varric as Sera grumbled to herself, and Dorian saw a grin pass across Lavellan’s face. He dipped into the correct bow, as if the dungeon they were training in were a ballroom.

“You’ll still owe me a dance after this, kid,” Varric said.

Cullen touched Dorian’s shoulder, and turned him to face Iron Bull. “This hardly seems fair,” Dorian commented, glancing back at Cullen. “He hasn’t even taken a dagger. His entire body is a concealed weapon.”

Iron Bull shrugged and scratched at his stubble, slouching so that his horns didn’t scrape the rough stone of the dungeon’s ceiling. “You think this is concealed?”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “Point taken. I suppose you should be hoping that Halamshiral has more generous ceilings.”

Behind them, Varric and Lavellan burst into raucous laughter. Dorian smiled warmly as he turned to look. Lavellan was practically horizontal, Varric dipping him towards the floor as if they were finishing a particularly intimate dance set. Sera clapped and whistled.

“Alright,” Cullen sighed, his pause lingering long enough for Lavellan and Varric to scramble back to their feet. Cullen drew his sword and squared himself, ready to begin his own demonstration. “Let’s begin.”


	28. Chapter 28

“I'm surprised that you lowered yourself so far as to help Josephine put up drapes,” Dorian said, balancing on a stool. At the other end of the curtain rod, Solas ignored him. “Surely such trifles as furnishings are an insult to the dignity of a man of the spirits such as yourself.”

The dining table and chairs for tomorrow's salon were already laid out, but there was still a lot to be done. Lavellan had suggested that Dorian come over to read with him again, but he had decided against it for a number of reasons. Mainly that Josephine needed his help, given that her people were already burdened enough with the rest of the preparations for the Winter Court.

_I rather like you, Inquisitor,_ Dorian had whispered. _But I’m still deciding if I like you quite enough to let you see me making myself up for court, if you’re planning to turn staying with me into a habit._

Lavellan had laughed to hide how flustered he was. Walked Dorian to the room where the salon would be held, and stood on his toes to kiss him on the cheek. _If you’re absolutely certain, I suppose I’ll ask Varric instead._

He found it endearing that Lavellan really did mean to study together, rather than some coded innuendo, when he asked things like that. _Varric won’t be as fun as I am, obviously, but I’m sure he’ll come close._

Dorian caught himself smiling. It had been a few minutes since Josephine had disappeared to fetch a crucially fashionable vase for the fireplace, and the silence between himself and Solas was hardly companionable. Dorian was uncertain which of them was most looking forward to Josephine’s return.

Dorian and Solas lifted the curtain rod, and nestled it into the hooks above the window. Solas sighed as he let go. “Are you truly interested in what I have to say, or are you simply enjoying listening to yourself talk?” he said.

“Oh, a little of both,” Dorian replied, patting the dust from the curtain as he lowered his hands. “But this hardly seems like something that would stimulate your intellectual curiosity, given that we shall all be awake.” He had promised himself he would be on his best behaviour with Solas, but it was difficult. Dorian couldn’t tell whether Solas genuinely disliked him, or whether he was merely irritable when preoccupied, and always preoccupied.

“I find it curious that you believe I would have no interest in this,” Solas said, stepping down from his stool. “Because Lavellan has none, and we are both elves, I assume?”

“Well, yes,” Dorian shrugged. “Although I wouldn’t go as far as to say he has _none_.” He crossed his arms and leaned, perhaps ill-advisedly, against the window-frame. “Besides, you’ve never seemed very interested in people, or at least people who are still alive, so I assumed that an event built on human gossip would be about as appealing to you as an extended bout of cholera.”

“I find it nostalgic,” Solas said simply. “The Dalish have fallen far from the elves of ancient times. They had courts, fascinations, intrigues. Observing something such as this is, frankly, closer to what I am interested in than watching the Dalish would be.” His smile turned barbed. “Not that I would expect someone such as yourself to understand the intricacies.”

Dorian remembered a little of Lavellan’s descriptions of his clashes with Solas. He wondered if he remembered enough to put together a suitably witty remark. He hopped to the floor, and pretended at casually continuing to inspect the curtains. “Yes, Lavellan said you’re remarkably uninterested in your contemporaries for someone so otherwise concerned with your shared history.”

“I am interested in history at the point at which it is true, not at the point at which it has been diluted to superstition through innumerable years of misunderstanding,” Solas replied.

He passed behind Dorian, dragging another set of drapes towards the next window. Supposing he should at least help finish the curtains, Dorian grabbed the stool and followed at a stroll.

“You must know something of the Dalish, if you’re so certain that what they know is wrong,” Dorian added.

He didn’t know why he said it. If he wanted to find out more about Lavellan’s people, he would do better to pester Lavellan himself rather than an elf who seemed to have a… unique relationship with them. And yet, here he was. Single-minded, and a little pathetic. He wanted to know more about the Dalish in a misguided attempt to surprise the lover he was still pretending he wasn’t getting too attached to, and had found very little of use in the library. But knowledge was worth something for its own sake, he supposed.

“I know mostly that they care not for what I have to tell them,” Solas replied. “That their magic has dwindled to where they can name their mages First and Second, and that they are concerned primarily with the mundane.”

“Considering your distaste for the Imperium, I’m surprised that a lack of magic is something you’re disturbed by,” Dorian replied, stepping to reach for the curtain rod as if he hasn’t just said something he knew he probably shouldn’t have said.

“What the Imperium considers to be impressive is pitiful in the grand context of history, on top of everything that you yourself admit to be wrong with it,” Solas replied. “The ancient works I am interested in were achievements not matched by humanity. Those that the Dalish remember are simplified to customs and gestures. The calls for favour and allegiance between our great cities boiled down to a mating ritual, asking a trial of a lover to prove they are worthy. No higher than a bird crafting a nest to prove their aptitude to a potential mate.”

The door swung open as Dorian opened his mouth.

“Sorry for the delay, I ran into… something which needed my attention,” Josephine sighed. Solas returned to his silence as they finished changing the drapes, the stillness broken only by the clink of Josephine settling the vase into place.

“I am still at your service, despite your inexcusable several minutes of lateness,” Dorian drawled, glancing over his shoulder at the ambassador. “So please, tell me what you need us to do next.”


	29. Chapter 29

Josephine closed the door behind her, black lace mask shading her features. “He's almost here,” she said. “Is everyone in their places?”

They were mostly turned out in last season's second-hand fashions, owing to the expense of the new. Vivienne had decided it would be useful for Lavellan to familiarise himself with them anyway, in case anyone at the Winter Court should be wearing old clothes. She was to be playing one of the salon's other prominent nobles, Marquise Sauvage, recently widowed and secret mistress to Lord Caius, although things had turned sour since her husband’s death. Josephine had indicated on his lengthy character sheet that Dorian should be trying to find out why.

Dorian, as Lord Caius, was wearing a powder-blue mask with a matching headpiece. He was still getting used to peering through it, and to drinking the early-evening wine in smaller sips to avoid knocking the glass inelegantly against his mask. Slashed doublets had fallen out of favour as unfashionably wasteful due to the war, but Lord Caius wore one anyway, blood-red undershirt showing through the gashes, an ostentatious gesture that suggested to the viewer that he was wealthy enough, or certain enough of the war's end, to be frivolous with his clothing.

Dorian leaned against the back of the chair as Josephine crossed the room, carefully careless. “Does the Duchess de Lin generally carry Josephine Montilyet's ledger?” he asked.

“Oh!” Josephine exclaimed. Her eyes darted and her footsteps followed, stashing her checklist in the bookcase. She took her place beside him, to look as if they were in conversation when Lavellan arrived.

“Has our Inquisitor been briefed on what to expect from this collection of miscreants?” Dorian asked, smirking as he gestured around the room with his glass. Cassandra was wearing a velvet gown, and scowling by the fireplace, allegedly a reclusive Chantry scholar seeking financial support from Duchess de Lin due to the current upheaval.

Josephine smiled secretively. “He has been told what our spymaster would expect to find out before such an occasion.”

Though Dorian had enjoyed the dramatic gesture of making Josephine pick the Venatori agent at random, she had never told him who it had ended up being, and evidently wasn’t planning to give it away now.

He was absolutely dying to know.

He recalled that Vivienne's marquise had been one of the possibilities, along with Cole's bard and Blackwall's chevalier. He did hope it was Vivienne. The dramatic possibility of Lord Caius finding that his mistress was using him to send information to the Venatori was rather exciting. Unless, perhaps, the intention was that she favoured Gaspard, and that this was what had caused the rift between them…

Dorian felt he could cross Cole out, at least. Because frankly, getting him to pretend to be a person was going to be enough of a challenge, and he doubted Josephine would push for more. Bull's mercenary hadn't been on the list, given that Leliana apparently suspected that the Venatori agent was either a member of the Orlesian nobility or a close advisor. Varric and Harding's traders could make an interesting choice, given the links between Orzammar and the Imperium, but he didn't recall them from her initial list either, unless Josephine had made changes. The wine merchant she had originally suggested seemed missing from the party, for example.

Dorian knew much about the party's preparations and some of the guests, but not everything. As, he supposed, Lord Caius would. Josephine, as he should have expected, had arranged this all rather cleverly.

“I'm sure we won't disappoint, Josephine,” Dorian said, to put the ambassador at ease. He smiled broadly. “At the very least, I intend to enjoy myself.”

Josephine nodded, in her nervous perfectionism. Then the door opened, and her countenance altered completely. Changeable as Leliana, she affected a false smile and an altered voice. An impersonation of someone very particular, he suspected.

“Ah, how delightful, you’ve arrived!” Josephine exclaimed.

Cullen stood stiffly, holding the door open. He had been convinced to play the valet for ten minutes before returning to Inquisition business. “I present Lord Inquisitor Lavellan, representative of the Inquisition.”

His green eyes hard and his face blank, the Inquisitor that strode across the room towards them looked like a soldier in his new uniform.

Thick-heeled boots and stiff shoulderpads pulled him into the illusion of being taller, broader-chested and smaller-waisted, as was the current fashionable silhouette for men in Orlais. There was always a hardness to the Inquisitor. Dorian thought of how he’d looked at the gates of Haven, fighting demons, staring down Halward. But today, he looked sharpened to a point. His hair styled with wax, where it was normally mussed with stray hairs from Lavellan running his hands through it; his boots freshly blackened, where they were normally cracked and lightened from wear.

There was something imperceptibly different about his face, too. He wasn’t wearing a full face of make-up for the same reason he wasn’t wearing a mask – foundation and powder would hide his vallaslin – but perhaps Leliana had done something else. Plucked his eyebrows or shaded his waterline. Or perhaps Dorian had simply grown used to seeing him without the Inquisitor’s façade, was used to being beside him rather than facing him when he strode into a room on Inquisition business. He liked that he got to have both.

Lavellan bowed, deeply but not too deeply. “Thank you for your invitation, Your Grace,” he said. Meeting Josephine's eyes steadily, like a wolf fixed on prey.

Given his power, wealth and favour for the Valmonts, how should Lord Caius respond? He and Josephine had agreed that he should be condescending, attempting to undermine the hostess.

“I’m surprised you decided to show yourself at my dear sister-in-law’s little soiree,” Dorian said. “I assumed a man such as yourself would have better things to do.”

The Inquisitor straightened. They caught each other smiling, as if they were simply who they were. Dorian flickered his expression into Lord Caius’ sneer, and Lavellan tightened his mouth into the Inquisitor’s stiff-humoured grimace.

“It is always-- I am always humbled to be invited to participate in the Game,” Lavellan replied, stumbling only slightly over what Dorian assumed was the line he had rehearsed with Leliana. There would be questions and courtly rituals he could be prepared for in specific, Dorian supposed.

“Obviously, you have just been announced, Lord Inquisitor,” Josephine cut in, stepping between them in perfect demonstration of a hostess anxious about her own control. “But I suspect it would be best to introduce you to the other guests before my dear brother-in-law begins to talk your ear off about, well, unpleasantness.”

Dorian made a show of scoffing at her under his breath. They had agreed that he should be obvious in his disdain, given that they expected the rest of their party to carry their imaginary grudges with anxious subtlety. And Dorian did so love playing the villain, it was rather more fun. He lowered his voice, and hissed. “Why the bloody hell else would he be here but the war, Marie?”

Josephine held her hand up, and smiled diplomatically. “Please, Lord Caius. You may question our guest later.” She held her arm out, and Lavellan took it, lightly touching her forearm in a position that was likely to give no suggestion of inappropriate intimacy. She guided him towards Sera and Solas, the artist and the member of the College of Heralds. Dorian had wondered why Josephine had given Solas that part, but apparently he’d asked for it. Given their conversation the day before, Dorian assumed there was something of obscure interest to him. _Did you know that the ancient elves considered heraldry to be deeply important? I am very disappointed that the Dalish do not wear the appropriate genealogical crests, etcetera._

Dorian swept towards Vivienne, who was loitering by the window. She watched through her mourning mask as he approached.

“Is it too early to make a scene?” he asked, in his own voice.

“I’m sure we can find a reason for it not to be,” she replied, keeping her expression stern, as if she were indeed someone not pleased to see her lover. “I have an idea of what we could be arguing about. May I suggest the dining room, given that it is currently unoccupied?”

“Certainly,” Dorian replied. Josephine was still walking Lavellan around the other side of the room, far away enough that they could speak out of character. “Shall I storm off, or would you like to do the honours?”

“Not now,” Vivienne snapped, raising her voice enough that Varric and Harding, closer to the makeshift dining room, could hear it. He supposed it would be Vivienne, then. She walked away, head held high, boots clacking across the wooden floor. He shot a pointed glare at Josephine as she turned to look, and followed.

“Yep, you know, trading things. I love it,” Harding was muttering nervously as Dorian passed.

“I know, kid. Enjoy your break, I’ll do the talking if you need me to,” Varric assured.

Dorian passed through the doorway. Now out of view, Vivienne allowed herself a pleased expression. Dorian bowed, as if they were to dance, and then raised his voice as he straightened.

“Really, Marquise, avoiding me at a party I invited you to! What indignities will you subject me to next?”


	30. Chapter 30

In Dorian’s experience, arguments that one got into just outside of a party’s intended gathering area went on for longer than one thought they had. Halward and Aquinea had each thought themselves masters of the discreet word, whether their issue was with Dorian or with each other, but in such an observed arena all comings and goings, especially those attempting subtlety, are noted. Aquinea complaining that he was holding his wine glass in a sloppy manner, his father that he wasn’t associating with the people he was seeking favour with. Dorian was used to looking out across the room when he returned, and seeing how successfully people ignored, or pretended to ignore, his return.

Much like Dorian and Vivienne, neither Lord Caius or the Marquise liked to let someone else to have the last word. But Dorian had still managed to storm out first, a pleasing victory. Even Harding managed not to lift her head at his return, although he supposed she and Varric had likely been eavesdropping, given their convenient placement.

Thinking back through Vivienne’s words, he still couldn’t tell if she was the Venatori agent. He had already guessed that something had changed with her husband’s death, although he hadn’t thought she cared for him. Did she need the distraction Lord Caius provided less, now that she had the house to herself? Was she hoping to dispense with an inconvenient suitor before seeking a new husband? Did she anticipate a victory for Gaspard, and was seeking to distance herself with someone who would become a political millstone?

Or was the Marquise rather clumsier than Vivienne herself, and being rather too transparent in pushing away someone who might notice something suspicious in her husband’s death, or her obviously flaunted wealth?

When Dorian returned to a party after an argument in Tevinter, there was usually something pleasant he was eager to return to. Maevaris, or a handsome stranger, or the wine. As it was, he was pretending to be a sketchy aristocrat whose main interests in the evening were interrogating the Inquisitor and embarrassing Duchess de Lin. Under normal circumstances, it would be unseemly for him to move straight from arguing with one guest to arguing with another. And, indeed, it was also unseemly under these circumstances. But that had been part of Josephine’s intention for this character – Lavellan must learn not only to impress by the Game’s rules, but how to manoeuvre around someone who had the power to break those rules when he would likely not.

Lavellan had his back to Dorian when he crossed the room. Loitering by a painting with Blackwall and unguarded by Josephine, who seemed to be corralling Sera at the other end of the room.

“I see you managed to escape my dear sister-in-law,” Dorian said, affecting a sneer.

Lavellan’s grip tightened on his glass, but the smile he played was delightfully curt. “I see you’ve decided to rejoin the party, Lord Caius.”

“I could hardly stay away from the most interesting man in the room,” Dorian replied, taking a step closer and flashing a coy smirk. Lavellan’s smile flickered, but he remained still. It hadn’t been Dorian’s intention to make flirtatious phrasings or toy with him, but it was difficult to resist pressing Lavellan’s buttons.

“Perhaps I should take my leave,” Blackwall said, unimpressed.

“Oh, there’s no need, Ser,” Dorian breezed. “I would rather like a chevalier’s opinion on the, as my sister-in-law called it, _unpleasantness_ that I’m interested in discussing with the Inquisitor.” Being a chevalier, he expected that Blackwall’s character would likely support Gaspard, but perhaps Josephine would surprise him. He had no idea what Blackwall himself thought, or whether Josephine would have been inclined to draw on that.

“The war, then,” Blackwall replied, crossing his arms.

“Your ambassador is always so terribly _evasive_ ,” Dorian said, turning his eyes on Lavellan. “I thought I might get a more direct answer from yourself, My Lord. Where does the Inquisition stand?”

Lavellan's expression stayed mild. “The Inquisition stands against Corypheus, Lord Caius. It's no secret that we seek the aid of Orlais. What Orlais looks like when it grants us that aid is not for us to decide.”

Dorian leaned against the wall next to him, slightly too close. So that between him and Blackwall, Lavellan would be unable to extract himself without uncouth shoving. The aggressive posture of a constant thorn such as Lord Caius would be noticed and gossiped about. Josephine and Leliana would warn them of any such characters expected at Halamshiral. But Lavellan, a commoner, an elf, an outsider, would still be expected to be polite.

“I didn't ask about your _decisions_ ,” Dorian drawled, voice sickly-thick, a poison coated in syrup. Pretending to be someone who was pretending to be drunk to mask his malicious intentions. “I asked about your _preferences_.”

“I would be more interested in hearing about yours,” Lavellan said, sliding a lifeline glance to Blackwall. “What do the ordinary people of Orlais think?”

It was a good, though transparent, attempt at flattery. Given that peasants and merchants attempted to play the Grand Game, even hereditary aristocracy liked to think of themselves as ordinary but merely lucky, given that they were moving on the same board as anyone other than royalty.

“The ordinary people want an end to this,” Blackwall replied. He looked to Dorian with a pause. Dorian assumed he'd forgotten the name he was to call him by. “Do you not agree, My Lord?”

He would forgive the lack of a more specific honorific in this incident. My Lord was generally acceptable for someone whose rank one did not know, though it could be used to disrespectful purpose in incidents where the speaker could be expected to know that Your Grace would be more appropriate, but was choosing to feign ignorance as a comment on the addressee's insignificance. Duels had been fought, but wouldn't be fought today.

“There is little purpose in ending a war if it leaves the country in such a state that further turmoil is likely,” Dorian replied.

This was, to his understanding, a core tenet of the Valmont view. That Gaspard, the warmonger, was no better than chaos, as only the rightful ruler, an experienced diplomat and player of the Game, could restore order in the Orlesian manner. It made him think of what Lavellan had said, before they kissed in the library, about how the Dalish could not come out unchanged if they went to war in such a manner.

“War causes turmoil,” Lavellan replied, the terse turn to his voice covered by that now-practiced bland smile. “Orlais will need to rebuild regardless of who takes the throne.”

However Lavellan chose to end this, if he could, at Halamshiral, Dorian suspected that the previous Orlesian way would crumble as the old Imperium had. Slowly, over centuries, and then all at once.

“Ah, Inquisitor!” Josephine exclaimed, her arms aflutter in a manner that was a world apart from the ambassador's usual composure. Inserting herself closely, an elbow separating Dorian from Lavellan as she clasped her hands. “I apologise for leaving you, something needed my urgent attention.”

“It's no trouble, Your Grace,” Lavellan replied. “I was having the most interesting conversation with your brother-in-law and Ser Gautier.”

“Thank you for looking after our guest, Lord Caius,” Josephine said, putting on a pointed look. Her mouth spread into a smile as a genuine light came to her eyes. She looked back to Lavellan. “Now, Lord Inquisitor, you must meet the Marquise. I don't believe you had the opportunity to be introduced. Would you care to join us, Lord Caius?”

If this had been a manners play, Dorian might have laughed. He was still attempting to remain in character, however.

“You know, I've suddenly spotted someone I need to speak to,” Dorian replied. He flashed Lavellan a barbed smile. “Do enjoy your time with the Marquise, My Lord. I am keen to continue our little discussion another time.”

Lavellan let himself be led away, and Blackwall leaned against the wall. Dorian watched Lavellan chatter away with Josephine's silly Duchess, not quite court-slick, but assertive and unafraid.

“Better him than me,” Blackwall sighed.

“You were in the Orlesian army, weren't you?” Dorian asked. “I thought you'd be used to this.”

Blackwall grimaced, but said nothing. Dorian had assumed it was an out of character remark, but perhaps Ser Gautier had his own history with the Marquise. Lavellan matched Vivienne's bow, and the Marquise shot a pointed look across to Dorian as they spoke. Dorian really should have questioned Blackwall, but the idea of trying to get anything from him seemed futile.

From the corner of his eye, something red moved. Cassandra grabbed roughly at the waist of her gown as one of the pins tumbled free. Evidently, she hadn’t had the patience to let the tailor take it in. Lord Caius wouldn't help, but Dorian decided he probably should, and began to cross the room.

Actually, perhaps he could find a reason that Lord Caius would help. Assisting the younger scholar as some ploy to make his likely-former lover jealous, for example.

“My Lady, you look like you might require assistance,” Dorian said dryly, with an overly-respectful bow.

“I need to step outside,” Cassandra said, gritting her teeth. Dorian crouched to pick up the missing pin before it caused an incident. Cassandra didn’t have enough hands to hold everything she needed to in place, the overly-long skirt slipping and puddling on the floor.

“If you need my help, you need only ask,” he said.

“I might,” she grunted. She let Dorian take one of the clots of fabric bunched in her first, and lifted the skirt to her ankles.

“We’ll fix this in the corridor,” Dorian said quietly. Cassandra nodded, flushing as red as her dress, and hobbled towards the door. Dorian was trying very, very hard not to laugh before they got outside.

“So,” he said, by way of distraction. “What brings you to Duchess de Lin’s gathering?”


	31. Chapter 31

It wasn't the prettiest fix. Dorian and Cassandra had both gotten rather adept at patching torn garments on the road, but such circumstances did not lend themselves to much care for the aesthetics of the finished item. The pale blue thread Dorian had pulled from the artful gash on his doublet sleeve did not at all suit the particular red of Cassandra's gown at all, for example. But it would hold.

“The scholar is supposed to be in financial hardship, is she not?” Dorian suggested, as he cauterised the thread tail pinched between his fingers with a quick burst of heat. “Perhaps, if someone were to ask, you could pretend this is a purposeful modification intended to represent that. Let us pretend that's the conversation we were having out here, shall we?”

“This never happens in books,” Cassandra groaned, testing the new amendment with a tug. It stayed in place. “Heroines, however unlikely, merely put on gowns and walk in them.”

“Considering that you are already surrounded by heroic figures, I suppose that _would_ be the most unrealistic part of a knightly romance to you,” Dorian commented. He got to his feet. “Remind me to lend you _The Tragedy of the Chevalier_ after all this, would you?”

“After all this, I will need a _break_ from chevaliers,” Cassandra replied. She glanced furtively at the door. “I hope this distraction hasn't caused us to miss anything important.”

“Why Cassandra, everything that happens at court is important,” Dorian smirked.

“I meant the...” she lowered her voice, although they were still outside. “The murder. They wouldn't do the murder without us, would they?”

Dorian blinked. “Pardon?”

“There is to be a test of the Inquisitor's deductive abilities,” she said, simmering with repressed excitement. “A murder at a ball. Like in a novel.”

“That would certainly be a change to what I understand of Josephine's plans,” Dorian frowned. “As far as I'm aware, the Venatori agent isn't planning to murder anyone.”

Cassandra scowled in return. “Varric said--”

Dorian held up his hand. Cassandra blanched as she realised what she was saying. Her eyes narrowed.

“I need to have... words with him,” she growled.

Dorian smiled lightly as he opened the door for her. Cassandra marched through, shoulders squared. The gentle sound of music drifted from the far side of the room, where the dancing had begun. Lacking an actual ballroom, Josephine had asked their guests to suspend their disbelief. Dorian made a note to have Lord Caius stop Duchess de Lin and complain that she'd started without him. Dorian himself didn't mind so much, however. He watched Cassandra stomp towards Varric, who was gossiping with Blackwall, and perched himself at the table that marked the edge of the dancefloor. Next to Cole, who he almost hadn't noticed despite him being the only other person there.

Although he had been dressed in a nice shirt, Cole was still... Cole. Haunted eyes and dry skin. Dorian had gotten enough from Cassandra, admittedly mostly out-of-character, to rule her out as the Venatori agent – she would hardly be worried about missing the murder if she was the one who was supposed to do it. By contrast, he had simply ruled Cole by assumption.

“But I am not who I say I am,” Cole said, without turning his head. Dorian almost jumped out of his skin. “I am pretending.”

“Well, yes, we're all pretending,” Dorian replied snippily. “Shouldn't you be dancing?”

“I like listening,” Cole said. “Aren't you supposed to be asking me questions?”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian replied. He cast his eyes across the dancers. At the far edge of the set, Lavellan danced with Josephine. Dorian could make out their mouths moving, some quiet exchange of intelligence in the dance's relative privacy. Dancing had always suited Lavellan, and he made each step with elegant precision. Which was particularly impressive considering that Sera was swinging Harding around the middle of the set and almost booting the other dancers in the shins with her excited kicks.

Dorian was markedly more interested in asking about Cole himself, and how exactly he worked, than his character, but he supposed he should make some attempt to keep him involved in the salon. “What brings you here?” he asked. “Duchess de Lin invited you for a reason, I assume.”

Cole furrowed his brow. “I'm... a bard,” he said. “I'm here to watch. But I'm not supposed to tell you why.”

Well, Dorian supposed Josephine asking him to _just watch_ suited Cole's social inclinations perfectly. He couldn't cause much trouble at Halamshiral if he was reporting strange things he saw back to Lavellan or Leliana and little else. “And do you know who I am?” Dorian asked. Maryden's song came to an end, and the dancing pairs began to part.

“You're a good person pretending to be a bad one,” Cole replied.

“Oh, I'm not pretending,” Dorian grinned. He leaned away from the table and stepped onto the imaginary ballroom floor, aiming to grab Josephine from the tangle of bodies and limbs. One could most certainly dance passive-aggressively, and he was intent on demonstrating that with Josephine's capable aid. But before he could find her, another hand turned him aside.

“Lord Caius,” Lavellan said, voice low and serious. Dorian turned.

Lavellan had bowed his blonde head a little too much, which could be interpreted as either overly respectful or purposefully patronising, and held out a gloved hand. Dorian knew it was the hand without the mark, and that the dangerous palm was the one folded behind his back, but most would second-guess themselves, not only about which hand it was, but about what that would mean. A clever little trick.

“Would you join me for the next dance?”

Would people whisper, if Lavellan danced with a man at the Winter Court? Someone other than him, of course – he was already a scandalous choice for unrelated reasons, and one was generally not advised to dance with a secret lover at court unless one was doing it for a purpose. The Orlesians were somewhat more relaxed about relationships like theirs, as long as the legal lines of succession were taken care of, but that wasn't to say some of the same remarks and implications couldn't be used against someone such as Lavellan, with his uneasy reputation and the long list of people who would rather the Inquisition disappeared into irrelevance.

But today, Dorian supposed it didn't matter. He wasn't himself, and that the Inquisitor was speaking to Lord Caius would be more worthy of comment than how he was going about it. “I see you're planning to be even-handed in sharing your favour between myself and my sister-in-law,” he said, bowing to take Lavellan's hand. “I accept, of course. I wouldn't turn down the chance for a, shall we say, more private opportunity for conversation.”

Lavellan's mouth gave him a rakish smile, his secretive eyes promising nothing but heartbreak. If they had met at a party when Dorian was younger and Lavellan had looked at him like that, Dorian knew he would have let himself be utterly _ruined_ by him. Perhaps that was what scared him sometimes, that shard of fear, deep and primal, that added a self-conscious edge to his warmest feelings. Regardless of their late-night talks, Dorian’s mind would draw him back to the uncertain line between what was his trust, earned, and what was naiveté.

There was a purposeful arrogance in Lavellan's pacing, leading them to the front of the set where Caius wouldn't be able to tell who was lining up behind them. The message was clear. For the duration of the next few minutes of song, Dorian would be thinking only of Lavellan. He held his hand high and flat, a deceptively neutral stance, and Dorian raised his hand to meet him. The skin of their palms kept from each other by gloves, he felt for Lavellan's warmth through the soft leather.

The music stirred, and they began to move. Lavellan wasn't normally what Dorian would describe as flashy, but there was something to his steps. He'd led Lord Caius to stand in the lead position, but challenged him to keep up.

“Why are you so interested in what someone from outside Orlais thinks?” Lavellan asked briskly. A little blunt, but Lord Caius had been rather obvious.

“We are all invested in the outcome of this war,” Dorian replied. Lavellan spun into the first loop, and Dorian stretched to catch him. “I wouldn't be so gauche as to tell such an interesting specimen as yourself what to think, but I'm curious as to whether the outside world can see the right decision.”

Lavellan faltered as they took the next turn. Dorian hadn't been expecting such a straightforward answer to throw him. He met Dorian's eyes as the dance brought them to face each other, the mask slipping somewhat.

“Out of character,” he said, voice dropping. “Is Lord Caius flirting with me, or do I just think that because it's you?”

“Dearest Inquisitor,” Dorian breezed. “Lord Caius may give the appearance of flirting with you, but if it _is_ him rather than myself, that still won't tell you whether he means it. Perhaps he is straightforwardly angling for a private rendezvous after the party, perhaps he's using it to imply some other interest in you, perhaps he’s simply trying to confound you.” They lifted their arms in an arch, and then pulled closer. Dorian gave him a glossy smile. “It's a tool you may have to utilise yourself. The flirtatious part, or perhaps something further. It's the way of the Game, sadly. I shall be devastatingly jealous, of course.”

“I wouldn't do that to you, Dorian,” Lavellan replied, eyes hard. “Why would you even suggest that?”

Because it would be easier, in the end, for Dorian's fears about what _them_ meant to be realised in a manner that served some practical purpose. If that pragmatic seriousness of Lavellan's that let Dorian believe that this was something more could be the reason it wouldn't, without dampening his adoration for the Inquisitor. Without him having to be cast aside with disgust.

Maryden's lute reached a straining crescendo, too large a sound for such a small band.

“Because the Grand Game isn't a nice place,” Dorian said weakly. Pretending this was some lesson, and he hadn't meant what he'd said. “And it sometimes requires unpleasant actions.”

“As you've noticed yourself,” Lavellan said, with a dark smile. “That doesn't mean I won't still be myself. For better or worse.” He took control again, leading Dorian with an overly-formal firmness through the dance's final sequence. Bowed, just the right amount, as the break in the music indicated that they should part.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Caius,” Lavellan said dryly. Readjusting himself back to the character of the Inquisitor, now that they could be heard again. “Perhaps we will speak again later.” He stepped back, through the shuffle of swapping dancers. Dorian almost followed, but instead he simply watched, as Lavellan disappeared into the crowd. He wasn't sure what he would say, could say, right now.


	32. Chapter 32

Dinner at court was, as always, an ordeal. With every excuse to leave the table noted, the Dorian who had to endure them back in Tevinter found them suffocating. Leaving to get some air or another drink, the way he would have in the less regimented parts of a gathering to escape an argument he didn’t care to get into, would just as soon lead to another.

He had at least managed to get the passive-aggressive dance with Josephine he'd wanted before that part of the afternoon came to a close. He could tell they'd both been trying not to laugh, keeping their expressions pointedly bland. Taking turns adjusting their position to a marginally closer one and daring the other to be the one seen pulling away from their false overture of peace.

There were enough people that would benefit from the Inquisitor either appearing close to them or making a scene that someone might try a variation with him. That, Dorian hoped, would be where Leliana and Josephine would come in, finding subtle ways to steer Lavellan away or distract the noble nuisances. He'd come across Josephine doing it around Skyhold enough times – suddenly inserting herself between Lavellan and any particularly aggressive visitors that managed to corner him in the main hall. Ensuring that the interloper would neither get what they want nor be able to leave Skyhold telling all that the Inquisitor had been rude to them.

Lavellan was beside Josephine, who sat at the head of the table, with Vivienne at his other side to observe and correct his table manners. Dorian, for his part, had spent the hour-long dining experience trying to entertain Lavellan by riling his minders into barely polite court-appropriate arguments. Embarrassing Josephine with supposedly amusing recollections of mistakes made at previous salons. _Do you remember the time your chef used the Lydes 9:20 to make the coq au vin and served your guests the cooking wine?_ Offering Vivienne overwrought condolences that came with pointed questions she couldn't dismiss in front of an audience. _Your estate is so vast, Marquise, however are you planning to manage it all by yourself?_

Dorian couldn't explain what he'd said to Lavellan during their dance here, and frankly he didn't want to. Seeing Lavellan smother a smile or disguise a warm look as he and Vivienne swapped elaborate barbs, Dorian hoped that perhaps he'd simply... forget about it. Let any wounded feelings be smoothed over by a reminder of Dorian's charm and wit.

“Out of character,” Lavellan said, as he picked at the elaborate parfait in front of him with a tiny dessert fork. “I suppose I would tell Leliana and Cullen what I've uncovered, and let our people handle the Venatori agent. But I feel we shouldn't end the evening without discussing it.”

“On the contrary, darling,” Vivienne said, lifting her glass. Lavellan had clearly learned from her – they both held the wine to their lips frequently, but drank little. “If you are confident of your assertion, then unveiling your evidence before the court could be considered part of the Game. Nothing quite adds value to a party like an exciting incident one can tell peers who were not invited about, after all.” 

“Lay it out like the end of a story,” Varric added. Dorian could feel the heat radiating from Cassandra's face, even from the far end of the table. “Get all the suspects in the one room, and make a show of it.”

Lavellan cleared his throat. “Very well, then.” And he stood suddenly, chair scraping too loudly across the bare stone floor. He spread his fingertips across the table in front of him as he leaned forward. “I thank you all for your hospitality, but I have a second reason for coming here today.” He was trying not to grin, putting on the airs of a romance novel knight. “I have reason to believe that someone here is working with the Venatori.”

His eyes ran nervously along the table at the silence that followed. Dorian wasn't sure what he was looking for. A guilty expression, some signal from Vivienne that he was doing the right thing.

“Well, this will be exciting,” Dorian remarked, lounging back in his chair. “Are you going to pace around and read us our crimes, perhaps, as if we're in some cheap Free Marches mystery paperback?”

Lavellan leaned away from the table and took an uncertain step behind Vivienne. Dorian hadn't meant that as a suggestion, but he supposed the purpose of a dramatic revelation at Court was to let the nobility feel part of a story. And then perhaps that the rest of the stories they told about themselves were true, the ones where they were good, beautiful and deserving of their position.

“Marquise,” the Inquisitor said. “You are clearly relieved to see your late husband dead.” Vivienne smirked. With a dramatic precision Dorian didn't realise Lavellan had in him, he took an achingly long time to look away. “But relief isn't proof of a crime.”

He moved, next, to Varric and Harding. “Neither is lying, although I suspect those you have been trying to sell your family's mine to may be reluctant to do business with you if they knew the reason for your exile.”

Cole and Sera were next. He walked past them to the end of the table, and looked between them and Cassandra. “The bard and the artist are innocents, mere hangers-on seeking patronage from the nobility. The scholar is the same, almost. But you have been more successful, have you not?”

“Yes,” Cassandra replied stiffly, arms folded in a way that was definitely Cassandra’s body language rather than that of a timid scholar. “Duchess de Lin has been... very kind. She has offered to support and publish my research.”

“May I ask what you to repeat your area of expertise is, my Lady?” Lavellan asked, strolling behind her.

“Chantry history,” she said. “The Seekers, and the first Inquisition.”

Dorian froze. He had assumed that was merely to play to Cassandra's knowledge. Was it more than that?

“I suppose that's fashionable at the moment,” Lavellan said blandly. But added nothing more, and walked on.

"Killers, obviously,” he said of Iron Bull and Blackwall with a loose wave of his hand. “But what mercenary or soldier isn't?”

The only person left between Lavellan and Dorian was Solas. Dorian wasn't secretly the murderer, was he? It couldn't be Solas.

“I admit, you confused me,” Lavellan said. “Whyever would a member of the Council of Heralds be at a gathering so far from the Valmonts, at this time? But it isn't Duchess de Lin you're here to see,” and he turned to-- Vivienne? “Is it, Marquise?”

“He is my lover, it's true,” she sighed, putting the back of her palm to her forehead.

“ _Excuse_ me?” Dorian sputtered.

“Oh darling, you really thought it was just you?” Vivienne replied. “No, you were merely wealthy and entertaining. With my husband's estate mine through inheritance, I can now marry the one I love.”

“So that's why you accepted my invitation,” Dorian said, in mock-anger. “Because it gave you cover to meet him.”

And Lavellan walked behind Dorian, and rested his hand on the back of the chair.

“And you, Lord Caius. I have to admit,” he said, faintly amused. “I suspected you for a while. Your obvious aggression, your interest in the Inquisition. But I have one more question, if you will humour me.”

“Then ask,” Dorian replied, lifting his hand as if to beckon.

Lavellan lowered himself, and spoke by Dorian's ear. “You and the Duchess clearly _despise_ each other. So why did she invite you to this party?”

Dorian opened his mouth. The answer he had been working with was that he served a useful, out-of-character function. To be an example of aggression. To be...

“To be a distraction,” Dorian murmured.

“I'm glad you understand,” Lavellan replied, turning towards Josephine. A step, a step, a step, and he was behind her, hands clasped behind his back. “In all of his irritating angling, one thing was clear about Lord Caius – he sought an end to the war, and had a preferred candidate for the next ruler of Orlais. I knew the Venatori agent would have some other goal – to disrupt peace, to keep the parties involved fighting for as long as possible to prevent Orlais from turning outward to face Corypheus. I wondered who that might be. Someone who arranges parties made up of guests who will fight, perhaps. Someone spending their money researching the Inquisition.”

“You were _using_ me?” Cassandra interrupted.

Lavellan smiled mildly, and continued. “So what I'm wondering, Duchess de Lin, is what exactly _you_ get from this.”

Josephine composed herself in a manner that was clearly somewhat rehearsed. Lips tightening, eyes hidden by the black lace mask. “My family and I have been playing the Game all my life, Inquisitor,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “Hoping to raise ourselves from our debt, and return the de Lin name to the status it once had. But each move that should have been my salvation has brought me nothing. When I think of nobles who have been so lucky, brought so much light by Orlais as it is...” She tightened her fists, glared out at Dorian and Vivienne. “Why should I not wish it upturned? Why should I not wish my family to be elevated to their rightful position?”

Clever, clever, clever. Of course it would be Josephine playing it. Who else had interviewed him about the Venatori’s motives, who else had her knowledge of them?

“The Orlesian peasants that you grind beneath your heel to make your ascension would have objections, I suspect,” Lavellan said. “So I give you a choice, Marie de Lin. Will you be tried by the Inquisition, or tried by the people of Orlais?”

Josephine raised her palms, lowered her head in surrender. “Orlais could not understand what I have done. Let your people be my judge, then.”

The Inquisitor took her wrist, but paused, Lavellan's softness returning to this voice. “I would haul Marie de Lin from her seat, of course,” he said. “But I can't be doing that to my ambassador.”

“I am most grateful for your mercy, Inquisitor,” she replied, an impish grin creeping into her features. He released her arm, and she peeled the mask from her face.

“You did very well, my dear,” Vivienne said.

The others raised their voices too, an overlapping cacophony of comment and compliment. Dorian met Lavellan's eyes as he removed his own mask. All he needed to do was smile.


	33. Chapter 33

“I hope you do not mind all that I kept from you, Dorian,” Josephine said, bright-eyed and grinning.

“I'm rather impressed, actually,” Dorian replied, as he set another chair against the wall. Across the room, Lavellan and Cassandra were taking the curtains back down. Dorian had considered offering to help, to have a chance to speak with Lavellan, but he'd had enough wine that he didn't relish the idea of balancing on a chair. He was sure he'd find another chance – Lavellan couldn't be occupied every hour between now and their departure to Halamshiral. “The majority of the details were as we discussed, but you made enough changes to fool me,” Dorian continued, eyes turning back to Josephine. “Did you have some other confidante?”

Josephine shook her head. Dorian took his place across from her to assist in folding up one of the grand blue tablecloths. He'd already asked why they couldn't leave the room as is, but Josephine had been evasive. Some purpose of Leliana's, he suspected. “Vivienne provided advice on the manner aspects, of course,” she replied. “But she knew half as much as you, and our other companions half as much again. I had considered making Vivienne the Venatori agent, of course, but had not told her so when I changed my mind.”

“I did suspect her rather intensely,” Dorian replied. “I assumed that you would choose someone with a great deal of expertise in the Grand Game to play them, given that the agent Lavellan will be hunting at Halamshiral clearly has at least _some_ knowledge. As it wasn't me, and you were already taking on far too much of the responsibility, that seemed to leave only her.” They stepped aside from the table, bringing the bright cotton corners together. “So, when did you change your mind?”

“I had much the same thought process as you did,” she replied. She laid the thick triangle of folded cloth on the table and smiled. “And I suppose... well, two things. Firstly, that the more I thought about what you told me about the Venatori, and my own notes for Marie de Lin... the more it made sense for it to be her. Someone like her could have been recruited by the Venatori had circumstances been different. If she, or...” She paused. “If she, or I, had made an unknowing ally of one of Corypheus' people rather than our cherished Nightingale, I could have had very different poisons whispered into my ear.”

Dorian nodded carefully, taking another chair so as to avoid appearing to scrutinise. “So the story about the family with the debt – that's yours, I take it?”

“It is,” Josephine replied. “Though secondly,” she continued, voice breezier. “I thought you'd have more fun, if you were to be able to play detective along with everyone else.”

“You weren't wrong,” Dorian replied, smiling faintly. “It's strange, I don't often relish being wrong. I was trying to be far too clever, and the Inquisitor was just clever enough. It was equal parts joyful and frustrating to see where I went wrong.”

“That was how the Game used make me feel,” she replied, eyes lowered.

“I shall have to do something _you_ will find entertaining to repay you, of course,” Dorian said casually, leaning against the table. “Perhaps if I were to run one of these for recreational purposes, with you as the ignorant party. There could be a murder to solve. Varric lying in the middle of the carpet clutching a wooden dagger to his chest. Cassandra would certainly enjoy it.”

Josephine smiled. “Yes, that would certainly add an extra layer of excitement.” She lifted her eyes again, to meet his. “But there is no need to repay me for the extra work I've undertaken. I chose to take it upon myself. And having your company and friendship the past month... I so very rarely get the chance to speak so straightforwardly.” She perched next to him, and looked across to Lavellan. “I will almost miss this, when it is all over, as much as I will be relieved.”

“I... understand, Josephine,” Dorian replied sadly. Josephine, Lavellan, even Vivienne and some of the others – he'd enjoyed this precarious period of bonding with them. There would always be something else for the Inquisition to do, of course. Lavellan and Leliana moving pieces across a distant board, while Dorian tried to solve Tevinter's problems from beyond its borders. But his aristocratic idleness was not so focused and tactical as Josephine's diplomatic expertise, and Lavellan... well, that's why he'd said what he had when they were dancing.

Whether it be for his clan or the world, the concerns of the Inquisitor were – had to be – greater than Dorian Pavus.

“I will miss this too,” he murmured. This month had perhaps been one of his happiest, as much as it was filled with moments that reminded him of his worst. That said, the idea of a month unsoiled by the long fingers of his past seemed to Dorian to be a rather unlikely outcome. “It's strange to think I was almost dreading all this, at first.” Still watching Lavellan, laughing with Cassandra as they stepped down from the window. “I thought he would suffer far more than he did, I suppose.” He smiled, briefly. “And I suppose I wasn't expecting the pleasure of your friendship.”

Josephine nodded warmly. “I am still... afraid for him,” she said quietly. “No matter how well we prepare them, the Court could still be merciless. That was always a possibility. But we have... done our best. And so has he.” She tightened her fingers against the table. “And Dorian,” she said mildly. “I hope you will not be upset by me saying this. You certainly have reason to be wary of others meddling in your affairs.”

Dorian stared ahead, still, saying nothing. If it had been someone else, he might have snapped. Assumed this was some whisper from Mother Giselle or the like. But he trusted Josephine enough to let her finish.

“But... know that I have noticed how close you and he are, and how he takes solace from your presence,” she said levelly. Perfectly Josephine, free of innuendo but clear in implication. “He and I are similar in many ways. Our friends fear to confide in us, for they think our burdens too great to share, even when we would open ourselves gladly to their troubles. I suspect that you will be able to discuss most things with him, but... should something arise, at court or otherwise, that you fear to trouble him with but must discuss with someone, know that I am here for you. As fellow advisor to the Inquisitor, and as your friend.”

“I don't think my inner thoughts are all that interesting,” Dorian said, smiling weakly. A deflection, of course. He knew he was clever and fascinating. But Josephine wouldn't be the only person to have noticed his closeness to Lavellan. There were rumours before it was true. Platonic and malicious, with Dorian as a Tevinter agitator, or the ones that were simple in their lewdness.

But to answer Josephine with something truthful would be to snatch the covering aside, to let another person know there was something worth admitting to. A person who might ask questions of it, afterwards. He felt torn in two as he watched Lavellan, mouth dry with fear and heart full of pride. A lover one could brag of having, a perfect jewel of a man. “I suppose I do have one question,” Dorian said quietly. Averted his gaze away from Lavellan and Josephine both, towards the door. “You are far more appraised of what to expect people to be saying of him at Court, as much as it can be predicted.”

“Yes, I suppose I am,” Josephine said. “What was your question?”

Dorian swallowed. “Would it be better if I were to... stay away from him?”

The door opened in the silence that followed. Leliana and Cullen. Ah. To discuss what would be happening, when they left and as they travelled. He lowered his eyes as Josephine lifted hers, caught her firm, unwavering gaze.

“No,” Josephine replied, eyes gleaming fiercely.

“Inquisitor, Josephine,” Cullen called, leaning against the doorframe. “We have some final preparations to make in the War Room. The rest of you may be at ease. Finish your packing, we leave for Orlais in the morning.”

Lavellan paused by them as he walked towards the door, looking between Dorian and Josephine.

“I shall be with you in a moment, Inquisitor,” Josephine said slowly. “We have... some tidying to finish.”

“And I shall see you if you ever have time to yourself again,” Dorian said weakly. Lavellan didn't laugh.

“I'll-- be going, then,” Lavellan stammered. Dorian considered asking him to stop. But even had he not been full of fears, Lavellan really did have to leave. Their preparations for the departure to Halamshiral couldn't be delayed to assuage Dorian's feelings.

And though her feet pointed to leave, Josephine leaned in close. “Yours is the kind of scandal I can use to our advantage,” she said quickly. “It makes him look, as I believe Sera would say, _like people_. Some want to see him as Andraste was. Mortal, with all the inconvenient feelings that might entail.”

“Even should people see me as his Maferath?” Dorian replied, smiling darkly. “Would it not be inconvenient, for him to appear led astray?”

“Even then,” Josephine said firmly. She blinked quickly, as she drew back. “Dorian,” she added, voice so sharp one could barely feel it cut. “As we both well know. Some moves in the Game, no matter how advantageous they may seem in the short term, are not worth it. Let both of you have this happiness, Dorian. For as long as you can.”

He sat against the table in silence as she walked away, buckled shoes creaking and clacking across the bare floorboards. The rugs rolled against the wall, all other decorations folded, the room had been returned to its practical bones.

For as long as they could. He was still afraid, of course. Of how long that would be. But Josephine was right. This was not Tevinter. There might still have been people who disapproved of them – or of him in particular – at Skyhold, but it was not a place that was waiting to uncover his desires and destroy them as a degenerate threat to the fabric of society.

Corypheus could kill them all tomorrow, of course, but that would be a different kind of tragedy. This... he would go to Lavellan, whenever his dear Inquisitor next had time to himself. He would go to him, and he would make this right.


	34. Chapter 34

Dorian hadn't managed to speak to Lavellan that night. At the outset of the evening, he had entertained himself with packing for the journey. He felt more like he was preparing for a holiday than a potentially world-changing voyage, given that his outfit for the party was in Josephine's care and they would be stopping at Inquisition camps along the way to re-supply their practical provisions.

As it was, his pack was nearly empty, the victim of every trick for paring down his belongings that he'd learned when he was on the run. Three books, two changes of travelling clothes, a compact pouch of reagents. A folding case tightly cramped with the minimum amount creams, powders, perfumes, brushes and shaving razors he needed to make himself a level of presentable that pleased his own vanity.

He put his face to the slit window, and saw the candlelight still wavering in the War Room. Drank wine from a dirty glass and finished _The Tragedy of the Chevalier_. And yet the light still burned. It would burn there the rest of the night. Or at least, until Dorian had gone to bed.

Lavellan looked exhausted enough the next morning to suggest that it had in fact burned for some time after that. He barely seemed conscious of Dorian pacing behind him, pretending to look at the maps and miniatures as their companions slowly filed into the room, each dragging their travelling packs with them.

“My, Inquisitor,” Dorian said with a grin. “I hope it wasn't anything salacious keeping you up so late last night. You seem rather ragged, and certainly didn’t spend the evening in your own room.”

Lavellan smiled weakly. “Sadly, by the time I returned to receive visitors, I had practically already fallen asleep.” He looked up at Dorian and leant against the table, a crack of brightness appearing in his tired eyes. “I was actually reading about other people's salacious deeds. It gets surprisingly dull after three hours, and I still have more to read on our trip.”

“Normally I would offer to help you revise, but I think Leliana's entire intelligence report might be too much for even me,” Dorian said breezily. “I'll hear the highlights, of course. I'd like to know if I'm going to run into anyone of particular notoriety.” A flicker at the corner of Dorian's mouth. “Yourself excepted, of course.”

“After everything I've read so far, Dorian, being the figurehead of a heretical Chantry sect seems fairly tame,” Lavellan replied.

Despite himself, Dorian laughed. That morning, with such a crowd, wasn't the place to be serious and mawkish. Lavellan didn't even seem upset, considering how plagued Dorian was by his own worries, unless he was doing a particularly good job of hiding it.

Josephine, Cullen and Leliana arrived last. Josephine beamed at them as she entered, the other two absorbed with some quiet debate. Dorian allowed himself a brief touch of Lavellan’s arm before he walked to take the last free seat. At the front, unfortunately, between Cassandra and Varric. Well, someone had to keep those two apart, even if it meant Leliana would notice if he glazed over during the briefing again.

“It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a month since we first discussed the Winter Palace,” Josephine said, all smiles. “I would like to begin with thanks to all of you. Preparations for the Grand Game have been quite a change of pace for many of you, and I would like to acknowledge all of your hard work.” Her bright look alighted on Cassandra, Vivienne, himself. “Some of you in particular have been crucial in preparing your companions for what the troubles of court might entail.”

“At present, we are well-prepared,” Leliana continued. “But though the Inquisitor will be facing most of the scrutiny, I would like you all to be aware of what we may face at court. Celine, Gaspard and their allies will be prominent, of course. Ambassador Briala intends to represent the elves of Orlais, but her own background is… patchy.”

“She isn’t Dalish,” Lavellan added. “So whether or not we will be natural allies is…” He grimaced. “Something I’d have to find out regardless, I suppose. My people are not all friends, despite our often common goals.”

“Our hostess, Florianne de Chalons, is somewhat known to us,” Josephine said. “She is Gaspard’s cousin, although she remains close to Celine. Conversely, Celine’s Court Enchanter remains a mystery. They are known only as M, and despite our best efforts, we have been unable to uncover anything further about their identity or loyalties.”

“And should your intrigues run into trouble, Inquisition soldiers will accompany you,” Cullen said, a step away from the table. “We won’t be able to overcome the entire Winter Palace, or else I’d be suggesting we start there, but if the Inquisitor can identify the Venatori agent, we’ll be able to move on them.”

“So, what do you need us to do?” Dorian asked, leaning back in his chair. “Apart from eat small cheeses on sticks and try to look presentable. I’m fairly sure we have that part covered.”

“Other than try not to cause trouble?” Lavellan said dryly.

“I’m afraid that’s unavoidable, given your involvement,” Dorian replied.

“Pass on anything of interest that you find to myself, the Inquisitor or Leliana,” Josephine said quickly, before he and Lavellan could continue to drag out the meeting with glib remarks.

“But _do_ try not to cause trouble,” Vivienne added. “I shan’t be happy if I have to pull you out of the courtyard fountain after a drunken incident, Dorian.”

“I am more than capable of pulling myself out of the fountain, if such an incident should occur,” Dorian replied with a smirk. “Besides, the Inquisitor may need a distraction.”

“I’ll let you know if that’s the case,” Lavellan replied, smoothing his hair behind his ear and turning his quiet smile to the others. “Though obviously, I may need to ask for some of your help if I need to explore the palace. Those of you with a talent for unlocking doors in particular.”

“I can’t wait to piss in the Empress’ shoes,” Sera said, surprisingly solemnly.

“Please… don’t do that,” Josephine replied, teeth fixed into a grimace.

“Nobody will be pissing in anything they’re not supposed to,” Lavellan said firmly, fixing Sera with a look so serious it made Dorian wonder what she’d done before he’d joined them.

“Oh, you’re always such a bloody killjoy,” Sera said, throwing her head back.

“That aside,” Lavellan replied, leaning his palms on the table. “Leliana has prepared notes for all of you to look over while we’re travelling. The time it will take us to arrive will give us a few more days to finish our preparations.”

He paused, swallowed, face turning serious.

“I’d like to follow Josephine in giving my thanks to all of you. When we first discussed this, I couldn’t imagine feeling anywhere near ready for this, but you’ve all been a great help to me, even though I know that for some of you this has been just as difficult.” A glimmer of a smile. “Whether because you’re equally inexperienced, or because turning from the life of a noble is a step you took on the path that led you to the Inquisition.”

He leaned back, and glanced across his advisers. “I think that’s everything, isn’t it?”

“Everything best said in words, at least,” Josephine said.

“Then it’s time for us to leave,” he said, looking back across at them.

Chairs scraped slowly across the floor. Dorian stood up. Cassandra breathed heavily through her nose.

The next time they returned to this room, their business in Halamshiral would hopefully be at an end. Dorian slung his bag across his back, and began to walk.


	35. Chapter 35

Lavellan insisted on riding on horseback for the first leg of the journey, despite the availability of carriages. _We'll move faster if they're empty_ , had been his excuse, although Dorian and everyone else present knew it that, firstly, it wouldn't make terribly much of a difference, and secondly, they were already leaving with time to spare. Vivienne had raised an eyebrow, but neither she nor Josephine cared to stop him. Most of Lavellan's companions, Dorian included, had decided to join him.

He supposed it was the last chance Lavellan would get to be wild and roughly handsome for a few days. And, given the speed with which the head of the caravan cleared the gates, he supposed it also minimised the amount of time Lavellan and Cassandra had to spend grinning politely. They would have quite enough of that over the next week. Josephine had already warned them – word travels fast at court, and they should act as if anyone they met in Orlais could be passing messages. It seemed that this would be where the tiresome part began, their descent into dishonest winter.

Dorian was surprised to find himself thinking fondly of the last time they'd left Skyhold – their journey to the Hinterlands – considering what a difficult trip it had been for everyone involved. He thought of riding next to Lavellan in the brisk mountain wind, talking about romance novels by the side of Lake Calenhad, and taking his hand in the Redcliffe barracks. That these incidents had been glimmers between Lavellan's fear for his clan's life, Dorian's anger at his father's return and both of their injuries during the fight at the rift only served to polish the moments rather than diminish them.

But the caravan reached the fork in the mountain pass, and now their journey changed. Past the familiar path to Fereldan and towards Orlais, to skirt the edges of Emprise de Lion on the way to Halamshiral.

Dorian had complained about the night chill on the way to Redcliffe, of course. But a few miles and weeks away, the valley their horses and carriages travelled down into was thick with frost and snow. Despite their emptiness, the carriage wheels slowed. Despite their emptiness, the carriage wheels sunk. Without a word, Lavellan went to dismount, and let out at a yelp as he plunged ankle-deep into the powder-snow. Dorian laughed, and Lavellan pointed a barbed smile towards him as he handed the reins of his horse to Solas.

And Dorian watched, with a curling smirk, as Lavellan sloughed towards him, attempting to remain composed in front of his people.

“I fear you're going to ask me to lower myself to your level,” Dorian said dryly, looking down his nose at the snow-flecked Inquisitor.

“Why Dorian, we've crossed the border by now,” Lavellan said. “If you could at least pretend to admire me, it would be appreciated.”

“I'll consider it,” Dorian replied.

Lavellan came to a stop by his horse, and gave an inappropriately deep bow. “My dear Lord Pavus,” he said, in what Dorian recognised as an imitation of his own voice. “It would be greatly appreciated if you could lend your much superior fire magic to the cause of getting the carriages and wagons out of the snow.”

“Ah, you mean you would prefer I didn't simply sit here and fling fireballs at your procession?” Dorian said.

“If at all possible,” Lavellan replied.

“I'll consider it,” Dorian repeated, swinging his leg over his saddle. He took Lavellan's offered hand, initially lightly, as if they were playing a sarcastic game of knights and nobles. But as he stepped down, he too fell through the top layer of snow, and it was Lavellan's ever-firm grip that pulled him back from plunging to the ground in a rather undignified, and face-first, manner. He laughed and leaned back against Lavellan, forgetting for a moment that they had an audience, and conjured a flicker of flame.

Iron Bull and the Chargers had already dismounted to pull and push at the first carriage, with Bull's usual amount of raucous fanfare.

“Your nipples, boss,” Krem was saying. “Maybe in this cold you can use them to slice through the snow.”

“Surprised you can sass me through those chattering teeth, Krem,” Iron Bull replied with a grunt. He heaved at the back of the carriage, but it stuck, the snow weighing down the spokes of the wheels.

“As much as I'm tempted to let you try that, I would rather get out of the pissing cold as quickly as possible,” Dorian said. “Please, allow me.” He knelt through the damp frost and put his hand by the wheels. Trying to be subtle, for once. He was aiming to melt, not to burn.

“Inquisitor,” Cullen said from behind them, his heavy boots crunching through the snow. Not for the first time, Dorian envied the lion's mane cuff that closed around his neck. “As you can see, last night's snow was thicker than we anticipated. We'll need to have fire mages walk alongside the carriages and supply wagons to keep them from sinking in the snow, or slipping if the melted water re-freezes.”

Dorian had done many impressive tricks with his magic before, but something like this – unless one had time to prepare a ritual to clear the whole valley at once, it was generally considered the work of spellbinders. There was relatively little cerebral interfacing with the Veil and the nature of magic to be had in moving carriages through a mountain pass.

And yet, something about the particular challenge of this appealed to him. Not pushing his magic to the limits of its power, not performing a feat of great philosophical or technical understanding, but creating an efficient tool that he would need to be able to cast over and over for the next few hours. And a touch of technical complexity, given that his instinctive methods produced flames that burned as hotly and quickly as possible. Useful in combat but, as Varric had been so keen to point out in regards to his cooking, perhaps unsuitable for other purposes.

“How much time will we lose?” Lavellan asked.

Dorian traced a circle in the snow with his heat-tipped finger.

“A few hours at most,” Cullen replied. “This was never going to be a particularly quick part of the journey. I had hoped to reach the nearest Inquisition camp before nightfall to make tomorrow's travel easier, but that may not be possible. I'll have one of the scouts take a message to the forward camp, to see if they have soldiers to spare to clear the snowfall on their end.”

“We should try to make the camp, even if it means travelling in the dark,” Lavellan sighed. “Bull,  Krem, split up and help the other wagons. Dorian, I'll join you at the front. Fire may not be my specialisation, but I know enough to help.”

“Whatever you say, boss,” Bull replied.

“Whatever you say, boss' boss,” Krem added, following as Bull heaved himself through the snow.

Dorian leaned back as the glyph he'd laid beneath the carriage glimmered to life, the bright light of pure magical fire searing through the frost.

“And here I assumed you would prefer to lounge in the carriage reading your reports and heckling me,” Dorian said, dusting the snow from his hands and glancing up at Lavellan.

“Perhaps I'll have you do that if you get tired,” Lavellan replied.

Lavellan stepped closer. Dorian could hear Cullen barking instructions at the next set of soldiers. The ones loitering by the next wagon, the one Dorian hadn't failed to notice was clearly filled with weapons and armour for the Inquisition camps they were passing through on the way to Halamshiral. He supposed the useful part of Cullen's paranoia feared an attack by the Venatori while the Inquisitor was distracted at the Winter Palace.

“What can I do?” Lavellan said, the white smoke of his frozen breath rising between them. Dorian smiled.

“Stop me from burning the carriages to shreds,” Dorian said. “Use your barriers, or what have you. I'm unfortunately rather dangerous.”

“And I'm clever enough to handle you,” Lavellan replied, flexing his fingers. A waxy blue sheen coated the base of the carriage as Dorian's glyph flared. Dorian wanted to kiss him, but he wondered-- no, perhaps he should. Quietly pressed his mouth against Lavellan's frosted lips and then walked on.

The carriage creaked on through the snow as the soldiers behind it began to push. Dorian knelt, despite the chill already spreading through his legs, and started to draw another glyph in the snow.


	36. Chapter 36

It was indeed dark when they arrived at the camp at the base of the mountain, guided by torchlight and the distant sight of burning campfires. Dorian had decided to trust that the camp being visible for miles wouldn't attract unwanted attention, if Cullen had been willing to sign off on it. It was rather well-established from the looks of it. Mostly tents, yes, but the start of makeshift walls and cabins, things that would have taken time to build.

The soldiers took the wagons and horses from them, guiding the stunned mages towards the campfire. Scouts passed out bundles of dry clothes and wooden cups of hot tea to each mage that walked through the gates. Dorian had thought he mustn't have been too cold, given he'd been casting fire magic for miles, but the pain in his fingertips as he took the cup, the ache in his legs as he came to a stop, suggested he'd merely been numb.

“Go with them,” Lavellan croaked, voice scratchy from the chill. He put a gentle hand to Dorian's shoulder as he glanced behind them, the long line of torches still stretching up the mountain. “I'll wait until the rest of the caravan gets in.”

“At least let me wait with you,” Dorian said. Quietly, seriously. There were words he still wanted to have with him.

Lavellan nodded.

“You will be doing no such thing, Inquisitor,” Josephine interrupted.

Lavellan blinked as he turned his head. Neither of them had noticed her carriage unload. Her face and silk shirt, gleaming golden in the orange torchlight.

“People have attended court while ill, of course,” Josephine said sharply. “But if you catch a cold and spend the evening coughing and delirious, I imagine you will not be working at your best. All of the Inquisition's mages have been ordered to take respite.” She narrowed her eyes, but not without humour. “And that includes both of you.”

Dorian grinned guiltily. “Why Josephine, surely standing around in incredible discomfort is the best preparation for court the Inquisitor could undertake.”

She smirked, but spoke seriously. “I also ensured that tents would be prepared for yourselves, Vivienne and Solas upon arrival, should the Inquisitor or his companions wish to rest immediately.” Her gaze turned on Lavellan. “Ahead of the _relaxing carriage ride_ he will be taking on tomorrow's journey.”

Lavellan nodded stiffly. “I will trust yourself, Cullen and Leliana to see the rest of our people to safety,” he said. A smirk playing at the dim corners of his mouth. “It wouldn't be the first time you've done so without me in these sort of conditions.”

“Of course, Inquisitor,” Josephine replied, bowing gently. Dorian was relieved that Lavellan wasn't intending to argue. Perhaps a few weeks ago, Dorian could have imagined him doing so. _His people, his responsibilities_ , given that his instinctive inclination had been to... well, to do as he would.

Clutching his change of clothes tight to his chest, Lavellan strode on, and Dorian kept pace with him. There was an obvious question to be raised, and Dorian didn't want to miss the opportunity through remaining silent.

“I would still like to spend time with you, if that suits,” he said, averting his gaze towards the fire.

“It suits,” Lavellan replied quietly.

Dorian would reach his hand out for his, if they weren’t carrying so much.

“You would watch the rest of your clan come in safely when you stopped to camp, wouldn't you?” Dorian said. “I suppose it would have been somewhat like this.”

“The Aravels,” Lavellan said, almost dreamily. “Yes. Not because I was First, however. We all took turns – hunters, crafters and Keepers alike.”

Their tents were towards the back of the camp. Near the guard posts, and close enough to the edge that the Inquisitor could fight or escape quickly if needed. Lavellan smiled faintly. “Winters were always difficult. The ground so hard we could barely forage, and the animals that weren't hibernating had turned lean and fierce. And snow is always trouble, of course.”

Dorian could imagine. But he smiled. He didn't want to be overbearingly concerned, especially given that he was planning to be moodily serious in private.

“This one year,” Lavellan continued, beginning to laugh. He paused, to nod at the guards near their tent. Dorian made a point of bowing, and held the heavy tent flap open for Lavellan with the hand that clutched his empty cup.

“So, about _this one year_ ,” Dorian prompted as he knelt. The blankets were thin and coarse, at least by Dorian’s standards. “I would go to my tent to snatch what they set aside for me,” he said sniffily. “But I'm not going back out there.”

“My orchid, who can't stand the cold,” Lavellan said, raising an eyebrow as he sat on the bedroll. “Are you sure you'll survive with just this?”

“Maevaris called me that in one of her letters to you, didn't she?” Dorian replied flatly. “I should never have let you two know you might have common purpose.” Trying to hide the half-comfortable sting. That Lavellan would borrow his sentimental phrasing from a friend he dearly missed, and how he feared and longed to be spoken of in such honeyed terms.

“Do you still write to her?” Lavellan asked, setting his cup aside.

Dorian smiled weakly. “I've fallen out of the habit of letter-writing,” he replied. He hadn't contacted her as a friend since before Redcliffe, when he'd decided it was too dangerous to risk revealing his whereabouts to Alexius and the Venatori. Now they shared business through Skyhold, and signed their letters wittily, but nothing more. “Have you heard anything more from your clan?”

“A little,” Lavellan replied tightly. He lowered his eyes and set to unbuckling his snow-crusted boots, numb fingers struggling.

“Oh, please,” Dorian scolded. “Let me do it.” Lavellan laughed as Dorian swatted his hands aside. Though not quite as deft as usual, Dorian's fingers still worked quickly. “As you were,” he said.

“Leliana's people are investigating,” Lavellan sighed, letting himself lie back. He closed his eyes, a frown still crossing his brow. “The nearby city's elves have been having their own problems, and we suspect they may be interlinked. She received a coded note from one of her agents. While we are at court, the people she can spare will be attempting to ensure their safety.”

“Lavellan...” Dorian said quietly. “I meant what I said, a while ago. We could go to them, after all of this fuss with the court is over. I think you'd have earned a detour to the Free Marches.”

Lavellan smiled shakily. “Perhaps,” he replied. Dorian pulled his second boot free. And then, almost yawning. “But we have so much to do.”

Dorian put his sodden cloak aside, and lay down by Lavellan's side. Lifted his closest hand to cup Lavellan's face. “We should change before you go all the way to sleep,” Dorian said softly. “Josephine's right about you catching a cold.”

“I know,” Lavellan replied, eyes still closed. He pressed his cheek against Dorian's palm. “But I'd like to lie here for a moment, if that’s acceptable.”

“I suppose it is,” Dorian replied. He turned, and rested his other hand on Lavellan's chest. Watched, for a few peaceful moments, as his palm rose and fell with Lavellan's deep, tired breaths.

“There's something I wanted to say to you,” Dorian blurted out. Perhaps this wasn't the time, when Lavellan was so exhausted. But he had to make things right.

“What is it?” Lavellan murmured.

“I said something to you at Josephine's salon,” he said. “While we were dancing.”

“You say a lot of things, Dorian,” Lavellan replied languidly, his reaching fingers finding the base of Dorian's neck.

It would be so easy, to stop. To say _nevermind_ , to flirt back, to touch and be touched and melt into the night. Normally, Dorian would. But normally, Dorian wasn't so troubled.

“I said you might offer yourself to other people in service of the Grand Game, and it seemed to upset you,” Dorian said. “I wanted to apologise.”

“Is that what's been troubling you, Dorian? Something you said from beneath a mask?” Lavellan asked. He laughed as he spoke, but those careful green eyes watched him.

Dorian sighed. “It's... yes, but it's more than that.” He pressed his forehead against Lavellan's, and then pulled back. Now that it came to trying to describe what was bothering him, it was as if he was grasping at a cloud. “It's why I said it that's bothering me,” Dorian said tightly.

Lavellan nodded softly, and brought his fingers to Dorian's jawline. “What are you thinking about, Dorian?”

Dorian swallowed. He'd frozen, but Lavellan didn't push him. Looked at him warmly, and traced his thumb against his cheek.

“I wasn't entirely... pretending, when I spoke. If using every tool at your disposal would upset me, you wouldn't do it,” Dorian said. “And, certainly, I expect you might act similarly for your other confidantes, but... this tool, in this instance...”

Dorian sighed again. He felt he was talking in circles.

“It makes me think I mean something to you,” Dorian stammered. He tried to force himself to meet Lavellan's eyes, but couldn't do it. “And, frankly, I find that terrifying.”

“In what way?” Lavellan asked quietly. If he'd been indignant at Dorian's implications at the party, he sounded... sorrowful, now.

“I don't know,” Dorian said. “I'm not sure if I'm more afraid that you do, or more afraid that you don't.” He tried to smile, shakily. “You being who you are and me being who I am... I'm not sure this ends happily for us.”

In the moments before Lavellan responded, Dorian was certain that he'd blown it. His words had taken him over the line he had drawn for himself. He had made this into something more serious than someone like him had any right to want. But Lavellan only pulled him closer, slid his hands back to wrap his arms tightly around Dorian's shoulders.

“Dorian, this sort of thing doesn't normally end well for you, does it?” Lavellan whispered. “That's what I've gathered, from what you've told me.”

Dorian nodded. “There's no room for emotions, usually. It's considered rather rude, as much as that world of mine has its own etiquette.” He laughed weakly. “It rather ruins the mood. Asking someone to consider if they might feel something for you – it’s terribly presumptuous. And I have no idea what a future would even have looked like. The same surreptitious rendezvous, forever.”

“It will look like this, Dorian,” Lavellan said softly. “If... you want. You and me. Keeping each other warm in the dark, and making each other laugh. Wherever we end up. If that would be enough.”

Dorian pulled back to look at him. His lip trembled. It felt rather pathetic. But he looked at Lavellan's soft, sad eyes, and that set him off.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said, half-warm and half-alarmed. Fingers scrambling to wipe at Dorian's cheeks. “Dorian, you're crying.”

“I suppose I am,” Dorian said shakily, trying to smirk and failing. The words caught in his throat. “It's enough,” he choked. “Of course it's enough, you stupid man.”

“You can insult me all you like, Dorian,” Lavellan said dryly. “But come here, at least. It’s cold, your tears might freeze.” And Dorian let himself be pulled closer, laughing harshly against his lover's shoulder.

Dorian always imagined he'd feel different, if something like this ever happened to him. But he was still him, still an open wound. His dark brain scrambled, reminding him he could still ruin this. Reminding him that perhaps he'd just pushed the pain into the future, setting himself up for an even greater hurt. But he let Lavellan brush it away. His warm skin, his gentle hands, his kiss against Dorian’s forehead.

“Stay close, ma vhenan,” Lavellan whispered, so softly Dorian wasn't even certain if he'd been supposed to hear.

“I have no idea what that means,” Dorian murmured. “But I like the way you say it.”

Lavellan laughed nervously. “I never finished the story I started, did I?” he said, possibly one of the most obvious attempts to change the subject Dorian had ever seen.

“It's a dirty word in Dalish, isn't it?” Dorian said, his voice still choked despite his mirth. “Whatever rude thing did you just call me?”

“ _So_. One yea _r_ ,” Lavellan repeated. “My clan saw the snow was coming. We didn't want to have to dig the Aravels out if we were caught in it, so we took shelter in a deep cave, thinking we could continue in the morning.”

“You're fortunate that I'm interested enough in your life to drop this,” Dorian replied, lifting his head. “Perhaps it means orchid,” he continued. “Given that you called me that earlier. And I'm aware that in several languages, and I suppose Dalish could be one of them, it's an uncommon euphemism for--”

“ _That's not what it means_ ,” Lavellan said quickly, face turning hot. “So we took shelter in a deep cave,” he continued, teeth gritted, struggling not to laugh. “But there was much more snow than we thought, and in the morning, the cave was snowed in.”

“Lavellan,” Dorian said firmly. “Given your laughter, you think this is a fun story. I am severely worried about what you think constitutes a fun story.”

“It's very funny,” Lavellan said. “In hindsight. Although we did think we might die at the time.”

“ _Lavellan_ ,” Dorian said, in false exasperation.

Lavellan pulled the blankets over them, and nestled closer to Dorian. “ _The next morning_ ,” he continued.

Dorian relented, letting himself be pulled against Lavellan's warmth. Letting himself listen to Lavellan telling stories. Letting himself forget the sorrow that had fallen over him so closely. _You and me_. The two of them. Sneaking to each other's rooms and talking until they fell asleep.

Of course that would be enough.


	37. Chapter 37

It was cold when Dorian awoke, and as he emerged from the fog of sleep, he briefly forgot where he was. Lavellan was sitting against the back of the tent, one knee resting against Dorian's waist and the other leg stretched out in front of him. Dorian's eyes followed the easy lines of Lavellan's body until he found his hands, a folding knife in one and a piece of wood in the other.

And Dorian wondered – the Dalish would have their own version of a Harrowing, wouldn't they? The Tevinter equivalent wasn't as brutal as the Southern Chantry's, but it still happened. The first time a mage was plunged into the Fade consciously, and had to prove they were strong-willed enough to return. The Desire Demon that tried to tempt Dorian during his Harrowing had promised him something like this. His mind would live in a castle of dreams with a wraith in the guise of a handsome lover, eating the finest phantom delicacies and discussing philosophy from the Fade's grandest library, while his body shambled around trying to murder everyone.

He wondered if this was what Lavellan's dreams had looked like, too. Well, the parts without the demon.

“I see you're still here,” Dorian said, propping himself up on his elbow.

Lavellan smiled faintly, and carefully clicked the knife shut. “And so are you.”

And so he was. Dorian watched as Lavellan quietly, furtively tucked the closed knife, as well as whatever he’d been carving, into his satchel. Dorian’s tongue felt heavy, and his mind a maze.

He should speak.

“I confess, I'm not sure what I should say next,” Dorian said softly. “You're right, of course. I crossed the line I drew for myself in Tevinter with you a long time ago.” Dorian smiled, despite himself. “I let myself be seen with you in public, for one thing. I let you visit my quarters, and stay the night. I spoke freely with you, even when I feared I was becoming impractically fond of you. Those...” It was obvious, when he put it like this. It was obvious that Lavellan had never been an ordinary lover to him. “Those are things I would normally deny myself. But I didn't, with you.”

Lavellan paused. “I hadn't realised that was how you were thinking, Dorian,” he said. “I hadn't noticed how much this was troubling you. And I'm sorry for that.” He lifted his uncertain eyes. “I've… always been serious about you, Dorian. It's... how I am. If you still fear that this isn't something I want, please lay those fears to rest. I want this, Dorian. A lot.” He swallowed, and tightened his hands. “And I want _you_ , Dorian. A lot. All of your fears, all of your sorrows, all of your teasing.”

“Well, I certainly shan't stop teasing you,” Dorian said, with a shaky smile. He leaned in, drawing his gaze slowly over Lavellan's face as if he was appraising him. “I certainly shan't stop anything, if you want it,” he whispered. “I may even have some wants of my own.”

Lavellan laughed breathily, endearingly flustered. Dorian smirked. He liked that he could do this to him.

“What is it you want, then?” Lavellan whispered, eyelids fluttering softly. It was Dorian's turn to laugh. But he liked that Lavellan could do this to him, too. And now, perhaps, more than ever, he was happy to give himself over.

Dorian closed his eyes and leaned in, as if they hadn't done this before. Leaned in, and trusted Lavellan's mouth to meet his. Full lips grazing his, gently at first, then firmly, forcefully. Heads tilting, hands grabbing at sleeves. Dorian felt Lavellan's fingers against his neck, fumbling blindly with his collar fastenings. And Dorian drew him closer, pressing Lavellan's jagged hipbones against him, just above his own. Dorian felt a heat spreading through him, almost enough to forget the cold chill of Emprise de Lion.

“Dorian,” Lavellan murmured. He was panting. Lips parted, mouth damp. Lavellan's fingers reached for Dorian's wrists. “I--”

A sound rang from outside the tent, a horn echoing across the camp from far, far too close. The bloody morning call. Lavellan tightened his grip, and Dorian didn't pull away. A second horn sounded in response from the other side of the camp as Lavellan dragged Dorian's hands upwards. And with his eyes scrunched tightly shut, Lavellan raked Dorian's fingertips across his vallaslin.

“Lavellan,” Dorian stammered. Lavellan lowered his face and, fingers laced together, buried his face in Dorian's palms. Dorian blinked slowly, mostly stunned. His heart ached for Lavellan, and his trembling sincerity. Dorian breathed deeply, to still himself.

“I see you were serious about being serious,” he said, perhaps too lightly. He wanted to hold him, but he didn't want to take his hands away. “Has anyone ever told you that you can be rather forward?”

Lavellan laughed shakily, face still hidden. He let go of Dorian's hands. Dorian spread them out to the side, along the branches of Lavellan's markings, so he could hold his face and see his eyes. Kissed him once, slowly and tenderly, for reassurance as well as Dorian’s own desire.

“You know,” Dorian said. “Solas once told me – not on purpose, of course, we were arguing and it happened to come up – about one of the Dalish's rituals. He said that if someone is being courted, they may request a trial of some sort from their lover to prove their worth. Is that correct?”

Lavellan smiled faintly. “More or less,” he said.

“Now, I would have previously considered such a trial to be for you to request, given that I've clearly been corrupting your innocence for several months by this point,” Dorian said, a wicked grin gracing his lips. “But with you being so forward, dear Inquisitor, I thought perhaps I should be the one to request something of you. I don't need to know how things work to guess that this would usually come before, well, where we are, but as we're hardly a conventional Dalish couple I hope you'll forgive me the misordering of your people's ways.”

“I'm sure my Keeper will forgive me,” Lavellan replied evenly. His smile had warmed as Dorian had talked, and now he let the back of his hand rest lazily against Dorian's shoulder. “What would you ask of me, Dorian?”

And Dorian knew, as they spoke, how little time they had. The camp was waking, and they would have to rise soon. And then there was nothing keeping them from the court. Lavellan would finish his preparations on today's journey, and take a scant few hours of sleep. Lavellan would be cleaned, dressed and combed. And then, no matter how pleasant Dorian's witty distractions might be, Lavellan would be plunged into the viper's nest, and into the midst of a malice that went beyond their ability to keep him safe.

Dorian took his hands from Lavellan's face and pulled him tightly close, smile faltering as he pressed Lavellan tightly against his shoulder. “Come back to me,” he said quietly.  Cleared his throat, and spoke again. Firmly, this time, with a glib veneer. “Come back to me, alive. Preferably in one piece, but as long as you still have your head I'm certain I can work with whatever state you're in.”

He loosened his grip, so that Lavellan could meet his eyes. “After all you've said and done to me, Lavellan,” Dorian said, voice unsteady again. “After all this, I can't lose you.” Here he was, selfish as ever, begging Andraste to put her life and his love above the world. But here he was.

“Dorian,” Lavellan said quietly, mouth wobbling. They both knew that he could argue. They both knew that if it really came to it, and the only way to stop Corypheus was Lavellan's death, he would do it, and Dorian would shout and bawl and plead but would never, if it came to it, stop him. Foolish enough to fall for this martyr-in-waiting, Dorian wouldn't have him any other way.

“I'll come back to you,” Lavellan said, his breath warm on Dorian's lips. Lavellan kissed him deeply, hands grasping his, and started to get up.


	38. Chapter 38

The day before Halamshiral had progressed as Dorian expected. Smothering his selfish sadness, he had bid farewell to Lavellan at the door of the newly-repaired carriage the Inquisitor was to share with Leliana, Josephine, Cullen and what appeared to be several hundred pages of reports. They rode until after nightfall again, owing to their delayed departure, and fell straight to sleep.

And then the morning of the ball was upon them. And though the sky was still a painful orange, they began their preparations.

Dorian had at least some pleasant memories of the day before a night of festivities. When there was nothing to do but get ready, and the evening seemed full of possibility. They were still staying in a camp rather than a manor, but Josephine had ensured they had at least some of the appointments one might expect. Mirrors, for one. Washbasins, for another.

It was just rather a shame that they were crammed into sharing the small handful of tents the camp had to spare.

“I don't suppose you're planning to shave for the occasion,” Dorian said dryly.

“I _have_ shaved,” Blackwall replied tiredly from the next mirror.

Dorian examined Blackwall's reflection as his fingers traced his own upper lip, for any lingering stubble or hairs out of place. “Yes, I suppose I can see your neck now,” Dorian replied. He turned back to his own mirrored face, the ointments from his case spread before him, and delicately dipped his forefinger and thumb into the metal pot of wax.

“I know you're nervous, Dorian,” Blackwall said evenly.

“I think we're all nervous,” Dorian replied, rubbing his fingertips together. “Even Celine will be sweating through her petticoats at the moment, don't you think?”

“Probably,” Blackwall said, almost amused.

“My word, Blackwall,” Dorian said, glancing slyly at the next mirror. “Were you _entertained_ by something I said?” Dorian smirked, and carefully pinched at the corners of his moustache. “Perhaps this is a day that can change the course of history after all.”

“Perhaps,” Blackwall replied. But his warmer tone drained, and he fell into a soldier's silence, as Dorian was used to seeing him. “We can hope, at least. This war has taken too many lives,” Blackwall muttered.

Blackwall was Orlesian, of course, even if Dorian knew little of him. He had mentioned having lost his family, though not whether it was through death or, as it was with Dorian, estrangement. Whichever it was, if it was because of the war, that wasn't a scar Dorian was particularly keen to pick this morning, despite his burning nosiness. His truce with Blackwall was already shaky at best, and he imagined Josephine and Lavellan would really rather he didn't wind him up more than usual.

“I suppose most wars do,” Dorian said weakly. Reached for his Snoufleur-tusk comb, and turned his attention to his hair.

He supposed that, whatever Blackwall's own opinion of Gaspard and Celine, he had meant what his Chevalier had said at the salon. That the ordinary people of Orlais wanted the war to end, whatever _ordinary people_ meant in this instance.

Just as many of Tevinter's soporati played Tevinter's games, awaiting the luck of a magical child, only the lowest of Orlais were not captivated by the fantasy that they might be elevated from peasant to merchant to noble by speaking the right words, in the right place, at the right time. All siblings who were not first in line for inheritance offered their sword to ingratiate their families with the next ruler of Orlais, and came back as one forgotten corpse among dozens. Surely even those who wished to use the war to play the Grand Game must be beginning to bore of it, courtly fashions tended not to last half so long as the war had.

“Gaspard's carriage will be here shortly,” a rather harried Josephine said, poking her head through the flap of the tent. “Has anyone seen Cole?”

Dorian glanced over his shoulder as he replaced the last lid and closed his case. There was something subtly different about the way Josephine had painted her face. Her eyes darker, to better pair with the deep red of her jacket. Her mouth pale and matte, less glamorous than usual, to match the soldierly illusion of her uniform.

“I haven't,” Dorian replied. “And you look refined as always, Lady Montilyet.”

Josephine smiled briefly, and bowed lightly. “Thank you, Lord Pavus. Your manner is as impressive as ever.”

“I'm here,” Cole said from the corner of the room.

“Oh, thank goodness,” Josephine replied, clasping her hand to her chest.

Dorian hadn't been aware of Cole until he spoke. Apparently he was still doing _that_ , the thing where he snuck around and didn't let himself be seen. Well, perhaps taking him to the Winter Palace would be easier if he wouldn't be noticed. And if they did glance past him, at least he was wearing his uniform. Someone even seemed to have combed his hair.

“Cole, you will be taking the carriage after ours with Solas, Sera, Blackwall and Iron Bull,” Josephine explained.

“My my, we're letting them arrive without supervision?” Dorian commented as he pulled on his gloves.

“I trust in Ser Blackwall's ability to... supervise,” Josephine replied carefully. “And Dorian, you will be arriving ahead of us with Cassandra, Cullen, Varric, Vivienne and Leliana.”

“And you and Lavellan will be making a scene by arriving fashionably late with Gaspard,” Dorian finished, with a smirk.

“As was the condition of our entry to the Palace,” Josephine said, smiling tightly.

“Oh Josephine, I of all people can't complain about someone making a scene,” Dorian replied, raising his eyebrows and walking to join her. “I'll be looking out for you.”

“I expect you won't be the only ones,” Josephine replied stiffly.

Dorian passed through the door. He could see the first carriage, waiting for him. Cassandra and Cullen were sitting at the windows he could see from where he was, speaking seriously. Well, Dorian supposed they had many shared interests. They were probably talking about their favourite methods of oiling their swords or starching their underwear.

Small drops of snow twinkled from the sky, and Dorian hurried across the campground. He wasn't exactly dressed for standing around in the cold.

“Dorian!”

He found himself smiling as he turned towards Lavellan's voice. There he was, standing by the campfire and chatting to Varric. And he looked as he did at the salon, striking and serious, the rich gold braid at the neck of his jacket casting a reflective highlight along his tight jawline in the firelight.

“Inquisitor,” Dorian replied. He crossed the distance between them.

“I'll give you two some space,” Varric said. He rapped the back of his knuckles against Lavellan's elbow. “You're gonna be fine, kid.” He lifted his head to grin at Dorian. “And I’ll see you in the carriage, Sparkler.”

Lavellan's hard mask was softer in this light, as he waved Varric away and turned towards him.

“You look nice, Dorian,” he said, looking at him with gentle eyes.

“ _Nice_?” Dorian snorted. “That's all?”

Lavellan gave a sharp laugh, and shook his head. “Well, you know how you look, Dorian. What would you like me to say?”

“Really, Lavellan,” Dorian said, sighing dramatically. “You'll be in front of Celine Valmont in a few hours, and she might not be as charmed by that puppyish expression of yours as I am. You need to learn how to pay a decent compliment.” He took another step closer. “Let me show you.” Lavellan watched intently, smothering a smile as Dorian softened his expression into one of mawkish sincerity. “You look breathtaking, Inquisitor. The deep red of your uniform is exquisite. Your boots remind me of Emperor Drakon. Your mouth is perfection.”

Lavellan's serious expression crumbled into a laugh. “I get the idea, Dorian. You are more beautiful than Celine and more handsome than Gaspard.”

“Well, yes, I knew that, it comes with being marginally less aristocratically inbred,” Dorian drawled, hiding a smile of his own behind rolled eyes and an affectation of disinterest. “Though do be careful who hears you say that, if you're going to be murdered for slighting the Orlesians it should, preferably, not be before you've even arrived at Halamshiral.”

“I’ll try,” Lavellan said, his voice warm beneath his mirth. “Oh, and I have something for you.”

Dorian blinked as he realised Lavellan was serious, reaching his gloved hand into his pocket. “...What?”

Lavellan smiled and pressed something sharp into Dorian's palm. A small, roughly-carved wooden Halla on a leather cord.

“You don't need to tell me it isn't your style,” Lavellan said, avoiding Dorian's eyes.

“You made this,” Dorian said incredulously, staring at the carving. Every time he thought he might have glimpsed the furthest reaches of Lavellan’s heart, the bastard went and surprised him. “That's what you were making when I woke up yesterday.”

“I meant to finish it before we left Skyhold, but... I didn't have time.” Lavellan shrugged. “I thought you could wear it under your shirt.”

“One does generally give these kind of gifts before their lover has finished dressing, but I'm sure I can accommodate it,” Dorian said. His mouth trembled. “Is there… a particular reason you made this?”

“I started making it after what you said at the party, actually,” Lavellan said, fidgeting with his gloves. “It was my understanding that it's common to exchange gifts and favours in Orlais and Tevinter, and this is the kind of present the Dalish would give a lover. I thought that, no matter what I have to do at court... you’d enjoy it, knowing you're the only one wearing my token.”

Dorian curled his hand around the pendant, and held it close. It had been a while since he'd worn something like this. He used to wear his family's amulet in Tevinter, another trinket of status, until he'd had to pawn it.

“You are unbearable, you know that?” Dorian said, threading the cord around his neck. “It's not fair for you to be this thoughtful. I'm going to have to surprise you in turn.” And it did bother him, a little. Not being sure if he should be making as grand a gesture in return, or if this was simply… how Lavellan was.

“That's not how gifts work, Dorian,” Lavellan laughed. He looked towards the carriage. Dorian supposed they didn't have much time. Lavellan glanced back, and spoke hurriedly. “Would it ruin your make-up if I kissed you?”

“Yes,” Dorian said, tucking the Halla into the neck of his jacket. “But you know I'm going to let you do it anyway.”

And even in his thick-heeled boots, Lavellan stood on his toes to press his grinning lips against Dorian's. Dorian brushed a cautious hand against the back of Lavellan's neck, careful not to touch his hair, and guided him into taking a step closer, letting Dorian tip his neck back. There would still be no easy cure for Dorian’s fears. But he was happy, truly happy, and drank of that happiness as deeply as he could until the winter’s chill crept back through his thin gloves and into his fingertips.

“I think that's quite enough scandal for now,” Dorian said, taking his hand away.

Lavellan smiled. “Well, try not to cause too much of a stir before I arrive,” he said dryly. “I'm supposed to make an entrance.”

“I'll try,” Dorian replied. “But I’m making no promises.”

And with a lingering touch of Lavellan's hand, Dorian stepped away. Walked the rest of the way towards the waiting carriage, and climbed inside.

He was, by now, the last one to arrive. Josephine swung the door shut behind him, and gave them an adrenaline smile.

“I’ll see you all shortly,” she said. And as she stepped down, the carriage began to move.

Cassandra stared across at Dorian with wide eyes, as if someone was strangling her. “Are--” she sputtered. “Did you and the Inquisitor--”

“Yes, yes, do keep up Cassandra,” Dorian replied, glancing out of the other window with a practiced smirk. He supposed there was no hiding it now, at least from their friends.

“Am I the only one who didn't know?” Cassandra demanded, turning on Varric and Leliana.

And the frozen countryside began to roll away, as the wheels of the carriage turned towards Halamshiral.


	39. Chapter 39

By the time they arrived it was already dark, and the early guests were roaming the gardens. Cassandra had refused the wine and canapés they'd been offered by a masked servant as they stepped through the grand iron gates, and glanced over her shoulder frequently and frantically as they strolled.

“Is there a problem, Cassandra?” Dorian asked, holding his wine glass to his mouth but drinking little. “Assassins in the shrubberies?”

“There are too many hiding places,” she muttered. “But more than that, I simply have no desire to linger and gossip. I will meet you inside.”

“I'll come with you,” Cullen said quickly. He turned to Leliana, and lowered his voice. “Hiding places are more your area of expertise, and it's best that I'm seen inside before I return to meet our late arrivals.”

Cullen waited until Leliana nodded her assent before he left to follow Cassandra. They marched across the labyrinthine gardens with soldiers' resolve, dodging the loitering nobles and ornamental sculptures with purposeful strides.

“Oh dear, someone should have told them there will be even more of _this_ inside,” Dorian said dryly.

“...I guess someone should keep an eye on them,” Varric sighed. “And I guess it might as well be me. Not the Kirkwall reunion I was expecting, but I’ll take what I can get.” He lifted his head to wink at Leliana as he took a step back. “Besides, someone needs to case the place, right Nightingale?”

Leliana smiled. Dorian imagined that the building was already crawling with her people, every publicly accessible inch painstakingly mapped. “I will see you inside, Varric,” she said.

They lost Vivienne soon after.  She breezed away to greet one of Bastien de Ghislain's old friends, with the assurance that it would be useful to win them to their side early in the evening.

“Look at the Countess’ gown,” Leliana whispered, tapping Dorian’s shoulder with what he might have mistaken for excitement had it been anyone other than Leliana doing it. He turned to look. The woman she was gesturing at was wearing a wide ballgown, the full skirt encircled by a gold latticed frame that reminded Dorian of a birdcage, and laden with dangling gems, baubles and charms.

“Truly, a very special kind of hideous,” Dorian noted. “Only someone of grand means could afford that many mis-matching ornaments.”

“I think I almost like it,” Leliana said, pretending to sip her wine. “I hadn’t thought you one for minimalism, Dorian.”

“Revered Nightingale, is it not true that one cannot truly appreciate beauty until one understands how ugly it can be?” Dorian replied, with false grandness.

“It’s quite clever,” Leliana continued. “You didn’t notice the knife she conceals at her right side, did you? None of the guards have seen it.”

Dorian squinted. As the gilded woman turned, he noticed what Leliana was talking about – a long, dark dagger sheathed against the skirt’s gold waistband, its blade masked by the constellation of silver animal heads and knuckle-sized jewels that drew the eye away.

“It’s a shame we couldn’t afford one of them,” he commented. “Should we be concerned about her?”

“Isn’t it just?” Leliana replied. “And no, not overly so. She has recently inherited a great deal of money, and while we are not without suspicions, she is most likely carrying it for self-defence. The less the people trust the Empress to keep them safe, the more weapons find their way into her parties.” She smiled privately. “Or rather, Florianne de Chalons’ party. One wonders why she arranged a contentious party with such little protection. Naivety, finances, or perhaps something else?”

Dorian took a deep drink of wine, and to his disappointment found that it was actually rather pleasant. “Well, their cellar seems decently stocked. From one of her supporters, perhaps?” Dorian suggested idly.

Leliana sniffed the drink, and took a studied sip. She frowned. “Marquise de Montagne,” she muttered. “But she supports Gaspard… Unless she's playing both sides...”

Dorian had forgotten who that was, but they were clearly important. “Or at least, someone with access to stocks of her wine is,” he suggested.

“Excuse me, Dorian,” Leliana said. “But I need to confirm something.” And with that she was off. Hurrying back towards the gate, presumably to confer with one of the scouts who'd escorted them.

And so, Dorian was alone.

Well, as alone as one could be at a party.

The white facade of Halamshiral gleamed with a blueish tinge in the thick starlight, and twinkling frost climbed the vines that climbed the trellises. It was beautiful, in the way that predatory birds were beautiful, despite the marks of siege Cullen had pointed out on their approach.

He felt eyes upon him as he strolled up the stairs, some curious and some maliciously delighted. He wasn't exactly hard to recognise, if one was looking out for him. It was almost like being back at Skyhold, just after he'd arrived. Nostalgic, really. There he was, the Inquisition's evil Tevinter necromancer. Lavellan's corrupting influence, or the sign that he was corrupt to begin with. Whether or not they approached Dorian, they could at least say they'd seen him.

Dorian could see most of the gardens from the west balcony, although not the parts of the courtyard beneath it. Cassandra was right, Halamshiral was certainly full of hiding places, though whether they were to be used for secret crimes or secret trysts on this occasion remained to be seen. Dorian leaned his elbows on the balcony, and swirled his wine back and forth in restless hands. Soon, Lavellan and Josephine would walk through those gates, Gaspard at their side. And then, all masks would rise, and the Grand Game would truly begin.

Someone stepped beside Dorian, and stopped. A pair of black-gloved hands leaned on the white marble balcony, clutching a glass of blood-red wine. Dorian decided not to give the stranger the satisfaction of looking up immediately.

“I had hoped he would be early,” the stranger said, her voice low and pointed. “’Tis a pity.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a messenger,” Dorian replied, affecting disinterest. If she was one of Celine’s people, she’d already know they’d had the chance to summon the Inquisitor and failed to take it. If she wasn’t, well, she didn’t need to know they’d struggled to be invited. “You’ll have to speak to him yourself, if you can catch him.”

“I wonder how close I’ll be able to get to him,” she replied. “With those overbearing handlers of his clucking around him like brooding mother hens. The broken-winged songbird, the outcast merchant’s daughter, and the alcoholic Magister.”

“I’m not a Magister,” Dorian corrected. “Although I understand that the mistake may be an artistic one. Decadent Tevinter exile isn’t quite so easy to say with a single, dismissive spit.”

Her dress had a bodice of red velvet, and a ruffled black skirt that could conceal all manner of secrets. Dorian hadn’t seen her in the gardens. She must have come from inside the palace. Whether she was one of Celine’s people or not, she was clearly looking for something. Dorian, to his annoyance, couldn’t figure out enough of an idea of what it was to toy with her.

So he allowed himself a glance. The woman was wearing a mirrored mask that covered her whole face, the twisting facets contorting Dorian’s reflection into a kaleidoscope of ugly caricatures that swayed as he moved. Her eyes, yellow with small black pupils, were surrounded by sharp facets that reflected her irises into a spider’s eightfold gaze.

“The specifics of your trifling titles are not my concern,” she replied. “But never mind. I wanted to set my own eyes upon the Inquisitor’s confidantes, and I have done so. I shall see for myself if he is as they say.”

She turned her head forward. For all the ornamentation of her mask, her dress, her heavy necklaces, her hair was surprisingly plain. A slick black bun, with no pins, no feathers, no glitter. Dorian couldn’t even take the satisfaction of knowing she hadn’t gotten what she was looking for yet, because he had no idea what it was. For all he had spent the past while teaching Lavellan to lie, he had been learning himself to be honest. He was out of practice with pure dissembling, clearly.

“He comes, now,” the stranger said. She stepped back as Dorian looked forward. Indeed, there it was. The procession carrying Gaspard’s colours.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder to give the stranger one last witty comment as farewell. But she was gone.


	40. Chapter 40

Dorian knew that Josephine had been pondering over Lavellan's entrance for a while, of course. Well, his _entrances_. He would have to make a first impression every time he entered a room, even if some first impressions were more important than others.

It was to both of their advantages that the association between Gaspard and the Inquisition appear to be a loose one. Lavellan could investigate with greater freedom if Celine's people would speak to him, and neither Celine nor Gaspard could be seen to support the heretics until they were in a less vulnerable position, given that the Inquisition didn't exactly have the troops to turn the tide of war on the battlefield.

Gaspard marched through the garden gates first, flanked by his golden-faced chevaliers, to the flutter of fans and murmur of voices. And then Lavellan followed, through a parting column of Inquisition soldiers, the exact number of which Dorian expected had taken hours of debate to agree on. Too little and they’d seem to represent a meagre army, too many and they’d be seen as a statement of aggressive intent.

"This must be Gaspard's idea of a joke," came a whisper from further along the balcony. A pair of nobles in masks of gold leaves. Celine’s people, by Dorian’s estimation, from the purple flash of their inner cuffs.

"Perhaps he hopes the brute will do something embarrassing to distract attention from how own faults," their companion replied.

"I didn't realise Gaspard was known for his sense of humour," Dorian interjected, casually twirling his still-full wine glass.

The nobles glanced over with thinly veiled disgust, and walked to where Dorian couldn't hear them. Dorian smirked to himself.

This was how it would be for much of the court. Lavellan, alone among the whispers. Dorian could only be so much help as a peacemaker, given that he was a Tevinter interloper on the eve of suspected Tevinter interference. But he did make a rather fantastic nuisance.

Because the mirror-masked woman, whatever her motives, wasn't wrong - if Lavellan's courtly mentors circled too close, people would question whether the Inquisitor truly made his own choices, and in the view of the court, Dorian would make an especially troubling puppetmaster. So he would wear the mask of the fool, instead.

Gaspard dressed relatively plainly compared to many of the nobles Dorian had already observed. But like the nobles Dorian had visited at the peasant-costume vineyard, relative plainness didn't mean his clothing wasn’t just as expensive. Solid, gleaming masks of bronze were hardly cheap, nor was the dyeing of fabric into such a dark, deep shade of Chalons green and tailoring it into a custom suit.

Everyone here wore masks. Gaspard's was to dress as merely another chevalier, as if he'd never been a prince. As far as Dorian was concerned, he and Celine were of a kind, a kind he was far too familiar with. Whether it be through war or through games, they would ensure Orlais' stagnant immortality.

Dorian joined Vivienne and Leliana by the gates when Lavellan tensely ascended the stairs.

“Lift your head and unclench your shoulders, Inquisitor,” Vivienne advised quietly. “The court will look for excuses to dismiss you. Don't give them any.”

Lavellan did as she asked, his chest rising and falling in a long, calm breath as he rolled his shoulders back.

“How did your enquiries go, Vivienne?” Leliana asked.

Lavellan stepped closer as Vivienne turned to the spymaster.

“I've been here for two minutes,” Lavellan whispered, his mouth still wearing a charming grin even as his voice bore irritation, “and I have already been mistaken for a servant and asked to dive into a fountain after someone's lost trinket.”

“Perhaps this could be to your advantage,” Dorian replied dryly. “Hide your jacket behind one of the opulent golden statues and nobody will notice you skulking about in the shadows.”

“I'm considering it,” Lavellan said. He sighed, and glanced down the stairs at the approaching Josephine. “I'm fine,” he insisted, without Dorian needing to ask. “I've been lucky around humans at Skyhold, but I expected this. Even if I feel like I’d rather be facing Corypheus.”

“Well, he is marginally less irritating,” Dorian replied. He allowed himself a brief, comforting brush of his hand against the elbow of Lavellan's jacket, and Lavellan allowed himself a smile.

However public they were to be, however closely Dorian wore Lavellan's amulet – they hadn't discussed it, but he assumed Lavellan knew, or had been told. That no matter the allegiance of their hearts, it would be for the best if the Inquisitor wasn't seen to have a favourite at court. He took his hand away, and crossed his arms.

“I've been expecting people to look at me like I've pissed in their drinks, but I at least have to be recognised before I get to experience that delight,” Dorian added dryly. “Regardless, it’s rather inhospitable of them, isn't it?”

Lavellan laughed at that, at least. They both knew that whatever Dorian might face, Lavellan would face it tenfold. But Dorian wanted him to know that he… wasn’t alone.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine said as she caught up, with a brief bow and a nervous smile. “Apologies for my delay, I saw the opportunity to speak with some contacts.”

“Working, Ambassador?” Dorian replied. “Unforgiveable.”

“There’s no need to apologise, Josephine,” Lavellan said brightly.

Josephine straightened, and cast her wary glance forward, towards Gaspard and the Winter Palace. “I expect you need… no more warnings,” she murmured. “When we step through that gate... the Game will not end until the night has a victor.”

“I know,” Lavellan said quietly. “Josephine, thank you for everything you've done. If tonight does not go as we wish... know that you did all that anyone could do in your position.”

Josephine nodded grimly. And with one last look back, Lavellan walked towards the gate.

“Gathered your people, Inquisitor?” Gaspard asked. His mouth bore a grimacing smile, all but the very centre of his eyes hidden by the sharp half-moons that made the eyeholes in his mask.

“We're ready if you are,” Lavellan replied evenly.

Gaspard swept his arm towards the gate in one short, sharp motion. “Then I think it's time we made our entrance.”

They walked forward together, out of the silver night. Josephine and Leliana following behind Lavellan, Dorian and Vivienne behind them. And in the moments of darkness before they stepped into the golden light of the vestibule, Dorian heard a voice. Leliana, murmuring a prayer.

_“Andraste watch over us, and Maker give us her clarity. Let our eyes pierce those with wicked hearts, and let the truth blaze bright with your holy light.”_

Cassandra and Cullen reluctantly joined them in the vestibule. Dorian wondered if they had their own prayers, or if they were placing their obvious hopes that this would be over quickly on the Inquisitor himself. Varric broke off his chatter with a frill-necked noblewoman who had apparently asked him for an autograph, and made his way over.

“Have you ever actually seen a lion in Orlais?” Dorian asked idly, by way of distraction. Cassandra followed his eyes to one of the roaring golden lions that framed the ballroom. He was aware it was a historic heraldic symbol, bestowed on Lambert Valmont for his achievements during the Fourth Blight, etcetera, but he would take his amusement where he could.

“No,” Cassandra replied flatly.

Dorian would guess that the statues were Blessed Age from their designs, commissioned with the spoils from the war with Ferelden. Dorian wondered if they were solid or hollow. If they were outrageously expensive as opposed to ludicrously expensive, in other words. “Do you think Celine has ever seen one?” he asked.

“I don't think it'd be polite to say,” Varric replied.

The door swung open, another mouth to swallow them. Silent Cullen stepped forward, jaw taut with gritted teeth, to join Lavellan's other advisors. Gaspard might as well have been playing a pantomime villain, from the tense silence that fell as he entered the room.

The master of ceremonies from the Council of Heralds stood at the top of the stairs to the sunken ballroom, a long scroll of guests and their titles draped across his hands. “Grand Duke Gaspard of Chalons,” he called.

The master of ceremonies conferred with Lavellan, as Gaspard descended to the ballroom floor. Presumably confirming exactly which reprobates the Inquisitor had brought as his diplomatic party. And then Lavellan began to walk, nervous fingers alighting on the gilded handrail.

“And accompanying Grand Duke Gaspard, Lord Inquisitor Lavellan.”

The rustling voices weren't friendly. Dorian didn't need to be able to hear what they were actually saying to be able to tell that. For their purposes, Dorian told himself that it was at least preferable to bored silence. Lavellan would need to be noticed, for people to wish to speak to him. Dorian smiled to himself at the memory of one of their early jokes, Lavellan's suggestion that they pass him off as a Dalish prince, in the way they could likely have passed Dorian off as a Magister if they’d been so inclined.

Josephine, Leliana and Cullen were called and followed. Lavellan kept his steely gaze forward, shoulders firm, and lifted his head as he walked across the tiles. Looking straight at Celine Valmont. And the whispering only intensified as she turned from her handmaidens to return his gaze.

The mask she wore was the cracked veneer of opulence. A grand golden sun spread from her back like wings, and a voluminous skirt of crushed blue velvet billowed from her waist. If Gaspard wished people to believe that he was like them despite his royal inheritance, Celine wanted them to believe that she was too grand to be affected by the war, that she still had the resources to spend freely on behalf of both herself and Orlais.

Vivienne smiled up at the faces of friends in the court as she was called to cross, and Cassandra barked at the master of ceremonies to stop listing her apparently endless array of middle names. And then it was Dorian’s turn.

“Lord Dorian Pavus, member of the Circle of Vyrantium, son of Lord Magister Halward Pavus of Qarinus.”

He smiled grimly as he stepped across the marbled floor. If anyone hadn't recognised him, he expected word would spread fairly quickly now.

The master of ceremonies had read his alleged titles without a hint of irony, despite their irrelevance to his current life. Member of a circle he hadn't returned to in years, connected through a now-dead mentor. Son of a man who had cast him from his homeland, even if he wasn't legally disinherited. If rumours of he and his father’s estrangement had reached Skyhold, he imagined there were some who would know of it here, given that it wouldn’t be the only true rumour about him to have reached Val Royeaux.

Dorian looked to Lavellan as he stopped in front of Celine. He moved as Dorian had seen him rehearse, elegantly dipping to the precise level of respectful humility expected before the Empress. His head lowered, and his gloved palms open.

The whispers around the Inquisitor would be worse, and likely less true. However uncomfortable Dorian was returning to a place like this, he came here without regrets. For Lavellan. And, he supposed, for the aim of stopping Thedas from being mashed into a carpet of blood and intestines by a half-living caricature of the worst that the world believed about Tevinter.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Lavellan said, with diplomatic warmth.

“Lord Inquisitor,” Celine replied, bestowing him with her own careful bow. The Empress wore her own kind of humility, surprisingly welcoming in her movements. Dorian looked for the mirror-masked woman in the gawking faces around the gallery, but he couldn’t find her. “A delight to see you at Halamshiral.”

Lavellan lifted his head. “I have every hope that this ball will be as delightful as your hospitality,” he said, evenly if a little stiffly.

“Any compliments on the hosting should be shared with my dear cousin,” she replied, standing aside. Florianne de Chalons took her own bow, purposefully deferential. Though she was Gaspard’s sister, she had chosen a mask that echoed Celine’s, her bare neck and shoulders shrouded by a wide, soft collar patterned in the sombre brown and white of a moth’s wings.

“Then, thank you both,” Lavellan said.

Dorian wondered at the drabness of it. Florianne indeed had a reputation for being somewhat of a milquetoast bore, but Dorian had assumed she would still dress according to the same fashions that other nobles followed. Perhaps it was a statement intended to undercut Celine’s position, a cry for help after insects ate the bolder dress she’d intended to wear during one of Gaspard’s sieges. Perhaps it was intended to take the focus from her, though whether that was for the purpose of making underhanded deals while eyes were turned towards her relatives, or whether she was merely an exhausted diplomat, remained to be seen.

Lavellan wore a lot of brown, after all. Chosen by Josephine to mark him as a humble ascetic with no designs on the Sunburst Throne, and kept by him because it was a comfortable jacket.

“How are you finding Halamshiral?” Celine asked, Florianne still silent.

Lavellan took a moment to give a silken smile before he answered. Looking at Celine with the deferential charm with which he looked at Dorian. “Words fail me, Your Radiance. I have never seen anything like it. I had thought Val Royeaux the jewel of Orlais, but this is its own treasure.”

The motions of his flattery seemed to please her, even if it was as empty as anything said at court. Gaspard had already left the room and there the Inquisitor was, taking the next step in the dance of an allegiance and inviting her to stop into it.

“Thank you for your kind words,” Celine replied, with a simpering gesture. “Please, take time to enjoy what Halamshiral has to offer during your time here.”

She made a final bow, and the master of ceremonies called the next name. A chevalier and his wife. Lavellan walked out of the sunken ballroom, and his associates followed.

“I wish I could just speak,” Lavellan said quietly, as Dorian caught up.

“I know,” Dorian replied.

Leliana signalled for the Inquisitor’s attention and Dorian smiled farewell. The Herald and his spymaster strolled, chatting amiably, through the sea of jealous eyes. The first movements of the dance had been called, and Lavellan would have to lead.


	41. Chapter 41

“I'm positively hurt, Josephine,” Dorian remarked, idling at the balcony above the sunken ballroom as another Baron arrived. Introductions and arrivals at events as grand as this one could last hours, and Dorian was torn between wishing Lavellan more time to investigate and wishing to avoid enduring any more of this interminable boredom. “After all the time we've spent together, you didn't think to tell me that you had a sister?”

“I'm more concerned with the fact that she procured an invitation without my knowledge,” Josephine replied grimly. Not that they could have used it, he supposed. If Josephine could have leveraged enough invitations for the Inquisition through her family, Dorian expected she would have done so.

“Father didn't want to go,” Yvette replied sniffily. “So I came instead.” She turned her lace mask towards Dorian. He had thought she was another minor Orlesian noble hoping to leverage something from the Inquisition when he'd approached Josephine. Yvette was dressed in an affordably muted variation of the current fashions – a ruffled dress of satin rather than silk, in a shade of olive green with enough yellow in its hue to divest it from Gaspard's colours. “She never takes me _anywhere_ fun.”

“I offered to have you visit Skyhold,” Josephine sighed. “But you complained that it would be too cold and asked if we had an outpost somewhere warmer.”

“She does have a very good point,” Dorian noted. “I wouldn't choose to live in the Frostbacks if I'd been presented with any other options.”

“When are you going to introduce me to the Inquisitor?” Yvette asked, turning back towards her sister.

“When he's less busy,” Josephine replied.

The Inquisitor wasn't the belle of the ball, exactly, but since Lavellan and his spymaster had returned from the vestibule, Leliana and Vivienne had been taking turns arranging introductions. Leliana pausing from the conversation she and Lavellan were engaged in to greet passers-by that Dorian recognised from their dress as at least wealthy, while Vivienne happened to wander close enough to offer her own friends.

The Inquisition’s aims wouldn't be unknown, at least to the nobles Josephine had written to. And their partial transparency was both shield and liability. Those who knew of it might think their practicality vulgar, while those who didn't may continue to speculate that the Inquisitor had arrived for some other nefarious purpose, to intimidate the reluctant parts of Chantry or so forth.

For all his connections Dorian, as he supposed he'd expected, hadn't seen anyone he recognised – not even anyone that he knew would be entertainingly displeased to see him. He supposed former members of the Southern Chantry's Circle of Magi with connections to Tevinter weren't exactly in demand.

“Is it true that the Inquisitor can tell if someone is lying?” Yvette asked.

Across the ballroom Lavellan bowed and spoke, any fear or discomfort hidden behind his own invisible mask. Dorian knew that fretting from afar would do little to help him.

“He can, actually. It's rather irritating,” Dorian replied breezily. “It's through his mark, you see. If he's touching you with that hand, he can read your mind.”

“Even through gloves?” Yvette asked, clasping her hands.

“Dorian, don't encourage her,” Josephine sighed.

“Even through gloves,” Dorian confirmed. Yvette glanced back towards Lavellan, and Dorian couldn't tell if she was amused or nervous. She was Josephine's sister, after all. As much as she played at being the silly ingénue, he expected she was smarter than she let on. _He_ was, after all – at least, depending on what he wanted his company to think of him.

Josephine and Cullen were best placed in the ballroom, given that seemed the most probable place for action at the moment. So, given that he was hardly likely to have reason to return to Halamshiral, Dorian supposed the most useful thing for him to do would be to look around. Make some witty remarks about the furnishings aloud, eavesdrop on some juicy conversations, and get a sense of the layout in case something exploded after a few hours of the Inquisition's meddling.

“But I shall take my leave of you for now, Josephine,” Dorian said, with a bow. “Perhaps I'll ask a dance from you when the sordid dregs of late arrivals finally dribble to an end.”

“That will depend on whether or not Yvette proves she can be left alone without getting into trouble,” Josephine replied, brows raised.

“I'll dance with you if she won't,” Yvette offered.

“Oh, I couldn't possibly,” Dorian grinned. “It's your first ball, after all, and I'm far too scandalous for a first dance. Your sister has already been positively ruined by association with me, but there's still a shred of hope for you.”

Josephine smiled from behind her hand. Dorian winked at her, and turned to leave.

The hallway that led to the inner courtyard was positively cluttered, the walls crammed with dozens of paintings in elaborate gilt frames. Dorian, of course, immediately tried to find the worst. Tacky would be too easy. He was hunting for the least remarkable.

He apparently wasn't the only one with that idea.

“Isn't this just your favourite part of the evening, Sparkler?” Varric asked, stepping up behind Dorian.

“Ah, the part where everyone stands around wondering if there's a more interesting conversation they could be having elsewhere with someone more important?” Dorian replied. “Not that you'd ever wonder that while talking to me, of course.”

“Well, Nightingale's asked me to look out for arrivals from the Free Marches and the Merchant's Guild,” Varric sighed. “Or at least, the ones I'm on speaking terms with.”

“You seem _very_ enthusiastic about this,” Dorian replied dryly. “I like to imagine it's because there's a tempestuous old flame you'd rather not run into, rather than because they're mundanely tiresome.”

“I'm not exactly friendly with the Starkhaven royal family after what happened with Hawke and Anders,” Varric replied, with a shrug and a glance through the starlit windows. “I think Sebastian would challenge me to a duel if he saw me again.”

“Well, at least that would be something to keep Cassandra occupied,” Dorian suggested. He gestured to a painting. Yes, this one. Too dull to be vibrant but too tepid to be moody. An uninspiringly decent painting of some past emperor's cousin riding a horse in a field devoid of features. Tacky showed passion, at least. Bad would me memorable. This was the worst of all – it was simply boring. “Tell me, Varric, do you think the overbearingly lavish frame elevates the painting, or does it merely draw attention to its relative blandness?”

Varric grinned, and cupped his chin in an imitation of thoughtfulness. “Do you think the completely forgettable painting makes the frame look fancier, or would it be better left empty?”

“I think they should all be left empty,” Dorian sighed. “It would certainly make a statement. I'm not sure _what_ statement, but I imagine the speculation would provide hours of entertainment.” He started to wander further down the corridor, and Varric joined him. “But I wouldn't worry about Starkhaven. Poor Sebastian would have to beat his way through your throng of admirers to challenge you to a duel.” Dorian smirked, and offered Varric a raised eyebrow. “Don't think I haven't seen the way the clearly more literary noblewomen are straining to catch your attention. Perhaps Celine is a fan.”

Varric gave a low laugh. “I'm sure she'd want her favourite author at her peace talks. Who wouldn't?”

“I've already told Lavellan that literature would be his way into the court's hidden circles,” Dorian said. “Perhaps she'd like you to write of her? Who wouldn't, of course.”

They passed through the broad white doors to the courtyard, where nobles who already needed air were clustered between hedges and statues, looking out towards the mountains or perching at the fountain beneath the crawling vines. There was a long table of drinks at the opposite end from the door, beneath an overlooking balcony.

“What have you written about me, out of interest?” Dorian asked. They strolled towards the drinks table, because it seemed like the thing to do.

“Please, Sparkler, I'm an artist,” Varric protested, half-laughing. “You'll have to wait until it's finished.”

“You let Cassandra have a preview of one of your books,” Dorian complained.

Varric smiled. “Oh, that was a _very_ special request.”

Whether because of his Inquisition uniform or, indeed, because of himself, noses wrinkled and heads turned, the bodies in the garden parting as Dorian moved. As Varric had guessed sardonically when he'd approached, this was in fact the part of the long evening Dorian had been dreading most.

At dancing and at dinner, he knew what motions he, Lavellan and the rest were supposed to be passing through. But this, the time when Lavellan would be free to move without his absence being so obvious, to try to get closer to either of the squabbling royals or to search the palace, was also the part when they’d both need to be mostly alone.

And, for his own selfish sake, it was also the part of the evening where Dorian would have to make do through the ceaseless tedium of a party where there was nothing to do but drink steadily, something he was trying to avoid doing on a night when he might be called upon to advise, console or fight, rather than merely fling flirtations and insults with equal indiscretion. He wouldn’t be causing problems for only himself or his family here, if he should become indisposed.

His hands fastened around a glass, and he and Varric backed away, settling against a statue of a hooded figure. Something that would vaguely muffle their words, within view of the door.

“Okay, Sparkler,” Varric said, his low, warm voice pushing through Dorian's stiff nerves. He nodded to the side. “What's their story?”

Dorian darted his eyes along Varric's line of vision. A trio of nobles, two men and a woman, dressed in navy and mustard. With, when Dorian glanced over, the woman glaring at a man who avoided her gaze. And then they switched, deftly avoiding noticing the other while the third babbled obliviously. Ah, Dorian knew this game well. He had played it with Maevaris and Felix before, during the Tevinter equivalent of this part of the evening.

“This was a mess, clearly,” Dorian said, as he turned back to Varric. He allowed himself the odd glance towards the door as he continued, determined to keep some track of who was coming and going. “I would say they're ex-lovers, of course. I think he ended the affair because she's from a poorer family. Despite her loathing she's still secretly in love with him, but is engaged to the third man, half out of need and half out of spite.”

“Definitely plausible,” Varric replied. “But consider this.” He lifted his glass to punctuate his opening. “Blackmail isn't a crime if it's in pursuit of the Game, of course. So they're working together, trying to cut a third relative out of a mutual inheritance. But this morning, they both received a letter. Someone knows what they're doing. They're threatening to expose them for part of the inheritance. They both think it was from the other. But can they be sure? If it's from a third party, and only one of them has been threatened, can they trust the other to help them rather than betray them?”

“Well, who's blackmailing them?” Dorian asked, riveted. “What for?”

Varric cast his eye out across the crowds, settling on a lone chevalier by the fountain. “During the war,” he began, meeting Dorian's smirking expression. This was as good a way to stay out of trouble as any, after all. “It all started during the war...”


	42. Chapter 42

Dorian and Varric’s game of conjecture had escalated, somewhat, by the time Dorian caught a glimpse of Lavellan through the window to the hall of portraits, striding with wine in hand towards the unguarded door. Leliana's comments about the party's lack of security had been haunting Dorian for the time he'd been watching the inner courtyard. There were guards, certainly, but most of them had been in the ornamental garden, as if the threat could only come from the outside Halamshiral's walls.

The rest were only at the party's edges, keeping the guests in place rather than looking for any danger among them. Was there somewhere else in the palace they were guarding, perhaps? The room where the peace talks would be taking place? Was this a ruse to attack one of Gaspard's encampments while he was occupied? Or was this purely a show of face – that it would be seen to be equal parts weak and aggressive to suggest that one didn't trust one's guests?

“Nevarra can’t be involved,” Varric was saying, with a low laugh.

Beyond all of that, he supposed Leliana would be wondering too – did someone so dull as Florianne really make all of the arrangements here, or was Celine or another hidden figure merely using her as a shield?

“And why ever not?” Dorian replied. Empty, jovial words came easy to him, a thin lacquer over his tempestuous mind. He imagined it was the same with Varric. He was familiar enough to know that attachés gossiping at the edge of the event was something so unremarkable that it would cause most not actively interested in the Inquisition to glance past them. “If, as you say, the hidden blackmailer doesn’t need to have close ties with the Orlesian nobility, what harm is there in crossing a border?”

As Lavellan stepped through the door to the courtyard, Celine's identical handmaidens swept towards him. Dorian had been wondering why they'd been waiting in such a quiet place, but it made sense now. It was one of the more discreet places open to the public to have a word with a controversial figure. They bowed in time, in a clearly practiced manner, their Valmont purple dresses crafted from drifting tulle and gauze as if to suggest they should be seen as wraiths – insubstantial, and unimportant.

“You’re just saying that because Tevinter being behind it is overplayed,” Varric suggested. Though the grin lingered on his mouth, he turned too, eyes darting towards Lavellan.

“Well, I’m not wrong, am I?” Dorian replied. He felt so powerless, having little to do but watch. All of their efforts here hung on frayed thread. Moving for movements’ sake, without signal from the Inquisitor or one of his advisors, or even without his own feeling that he knew what he was doing… as much as he knew the shape of the evening from Tevinter, Dorian didn’t know this place, these people, their connections. He had studied some of the briefings, yes, but not to the level of minutae that they would know of each other, that he would have known of people in Tevinter.

Dorian didn’t know what harm he could do. It could be none, if he was already considered such a pariah that any misbehaviour would be brushed off on Tevinter rather than the Inquisition. But it could be everything.

Lavellan bowed, and eventually excused himself from the triplets. Dorian had also been wondering whether they were actually identical, or merely close enough. If there were perhaps a set of extras, and they took turns. Lavellan was careful not to look straight at him or Varric, but Dorian knew he’d noticed. He turned back to Varric, and pretended not to be glancing to the Inquisitor from the corner of his eye.

“Obviously, I’m not saying it _couldn’t_ be my homeland,” Dorian said with a sigh, and a loose gesture to turn Varric’s alleged attention back to the trio of nobles they’d been spinning tales about. They were still rooted to the same spot, which Dorian found odd. Bound, apparently, by their unresolved tension. “But I was looking to, shall we say, broaden this tale towards less passé possibilities.”

Lavellan did look very lost, even with his head held high and his shoulders straight. He was clearly checking down a list he’d been given, zig-zagging across the courtyard to give brief greetings to partygoers Leliana or Josephine had described to him. His bold, athletic strides did at least somewhat alleviate the impression of a wounded deer staggering back and forth through a clearing. Wounded deer didn't tend to wear such well-tailored jackets, after all.

Varric shook his head, drawing Dorian's attention back. “I hate that you're right,” Varric replied. “Tevinter's too good a red herring, the blackmailer must be using them as a cover. Whatever's underneath has to be even juicier.”

“Well, perhaps it’s the third man,” Dorian retorted. “ _I_ think he’s in on it. Wouldn’t that be the most terrible thing at all, for it not to be some interloper from outside their borders? For it to be no other land’s fault at all but Orlais?”

Because Orlais, for all its beauty, was no kinder a society than Tevinter, and Dorian very well knew that Tevinter was the cause of most of its own problems. That was why Dorian was here, eavesdropping and drinking wine, instead of being by Lavellan’s side. Because Celine was too prideful to take Lavellan’s hand when he offered it in aid – Dorian supposed he could at least empathise, a little, with that part, with her need to hide her weaknesses – and what took its place was fear and favours, the dread that if Lavellan was not seen in the right way, some crucial door would close to them.

It was how most struggling players of the game felt, as if that closing door would cast the world into darkness. Unfortunately, in the Inquisition's case that may actually prove true. Even if, knowing how things usually went with Lavellan, Dorian was hoping he would find some way around the Grand Game. Whether by kindness, by subterfuge, or by direct action upon whoever this assassin was.

“Yeah, there’s a certain inevitable tragedy to it,” Varric commented. “I like it.” He curled his finger against his chin, and smiled conspiratorially as he turned his eyes upwards. “But are you sure it was _him_ that he sent the letter?”

“I think he _wrote_ it,” Dorian suggested. His lips curved into a smile, and he pretended not to have noticed Lavellan’s approach. “But I don’t think he _sent_ it. Perhaps he didn’t even intend it for these two.”

“I’m glad you two are keeping yourself entertained,” Lavellan said, chin lifted and smile dry.

“I did promise not to cause too much of a stir without you,” Dorian replied glibly. “And I do at least attempt to keep most of my promises.”

Lavellan nodded, but his mouth stayed tight. He was far more likely to be observed, he supposed. Such glib games as he could play with Varric might not reflect so well on a supposed dignitary.

Not that their eavesdropping had been completely without use. Apparently, for all its gilt, this wasn’t the grandest wing of the palace, though he expected Leliana already knew more about that than anyone outside of the palace had any right to. There was a grand mirrored ballroom, apparently, that was used for summer masquerades. Some whispered that it must have been damaged in a siege, or fallen into disrepair. Celine's critics complained that she couldn't be taking peace seriously, if she was hosting them in such an inferior set of hallways, while her supporters praised the change of venue, to this more appropriately sombre one. Thinking of the solid gold statues and dangling chandeliers, Dorian had deep concerns about what the Orlesian nobility considered inferior or sombre.

Even if, horrifyingly, that _was_ perhaps the intention. Perhaps Florianne the Moth’s dowdy outfit, intricate and yet still brown, was intended to mirror the event’s earthy seriousness. Whether it had always been planned thus, or whether it had been gently redirected after an inconveniently placed catapult shattered the mirrored ballroom’s ceiling.

“Also, Varric is clearly avoiding an embarrassing encounter with the Dwarven Merchant's Guild,” Dorian added.

“I'm waiting for the right time,” Varric protested with a smile.

But despite his feigned mimic’s smile, Lavellan was still distracted, eyes wandering to the doors and pillars. Dorian realised – he wasn't what Lavellan was here for. He was the sleight of hand. He intended people to think that the Inquisitor had come here to speak to his agents of chaos, rather than for any other purpose. Dorian lowered his voice, aware that they would need to speak carefully.

“How have you found this evening so far, Lord Inquisitor?” he asked carefully.

“Well, I can tell you what I've _not_ found,” Lavellan answered tensely, keeping his voice at the level of an irritated whisper. “I've not found a way into the negotiations, or any leads on the Ventatori agent from Vivienne, Josephine or Leliana’s contacts. The _gracious_ offers I've received from both parties are purely under the table, for assistance after one of them is installed on the throne, which _won't_ happen if they're both mysteriously taken out and the Orlesian succession crisis starts all over again.”

“Figures,” Varric sighed.

“Maker, they'd end up with Grand Duchess Florianne on the throne, wouldn't they?” Dorian murmured. “I can't think of anyone more malleable. I suppose whoever is behind this would be looking to puppeteer her, at least if they intended to resolve the issue before Halamshiral was ironically swallowed whole by a rift.”

“You're just saying that because you don't like her outfit,” Lavellan replied, a hint of a smile gracing his broad mouth.

Dorian snorted. “I didn't say--”

“After all of your tutelage I've gotten an idea or two about your tastes, Dorian,” Lavellan replied.

“Well, if you do find yourself needing a diversion, perhaps I can fight her about it,” Dorian said.

“It's fine, Hawke used to do this too,” Varric offered dryly.

“Do what?” Lavellan asked, an affectation of confusion creasing his brow.

“Get distracted,” Varric laughed.

Dorian smirked. “So, what _does_ bring you out to the courtyard, Inquisitor? Did you find yourself needing some air?”

“I suppose you could say that,” Lavellan said, eyes flicking upwards. “I found myself looking for a quieter wing of the palace.” Dorian followed his gaze. He was looking up at the balcony above the courtyard. “Leliana suggested that the guest wing or the library are usually quiet, but they appear to be closed at the moment. I was wondering if they might have been open from the other side.” Lavellan's eyes lingered, searching for stairs up to the balcony that weren't there. And then Lavellan's eyes crept downwards. Down the vine-twined wooden trellis that might have been just strong enough to carry the weight of a short, slender elf, if they were so unthinkably improper as to clamber up it. “But I'm not sure it's... a good idea to be seen sneaking off, anyway.”

“I'd forget about it, kid,” Varric said, with a gentle shrug and a mischievous grin towards the trellis. “With how many people are watching you, you'd need a pretty impressive diversion to get any quiet around here.”

Dorian glanced down at Varric, and then across at the bickering trio of Orlesians. “Varric, I am going to strangle you,” Dorian sighed.

“Ah, the Seeker would be so proud,” Varric shrugged. “But hey, you did offer.” Dorian was almost relieved, he supposed, after his complaints of having no way to help his Inquisitor.

Lavellan looked between them. “You have a plan, then?” he asked.

Dorian gave a frank smile, half-drained his wine and dumped the rest in Varric's glass. “Go with Varric, don't ask questions, and don't look back. This shan't exactly reflect well on your choice of companions.”

“I'm sure Josephine will forgive you,” Lavellan said, trying to maintain his nervous grin. “Perhaps I'll save you a dance, to make up for whatever it is you’re about to do.”

“If you want people to talk,” Dorian replied. He liked the closeness, when he and Lavellan danced in practice. His heart might have leapt, if such an offer was in friendlier circumstances. But he wasn't sure that he wanted the eyes of the court scrutinising them, even if it was for some pragmatic purpose. “Then perhaps I'll oblige.”

Varric led Lavellan away in quiet conversation, and Dorian prepared his act. He would pretend they'd had a quarrel, perhaps. If Lavellan climbing around the forbidden areas of the palace was going to work, it would need to be at a time like now, when they would have the excuse of Lavellan being in _just the next room_ if anyone asked after his whereabouts. And if this diversion was going to work, Dorian would need to at least _appear_ to be drunk.

He stormed to the drinks table, and flirted loudly and badly with one of the servants as he requested another drink. Red, yes, the kind of wine that leaves a stain. He could seem a lot of things when he was drunk. He was angrier, usually, but the people at this party weren't to know that. All they knew was that he was scum. Varric and Lavellan perched at the fountain by the trellis, so far back that no gaze that turned towards him should catch them clearly. Dorian staggered on.

It was a shame that Cole wasn't here. Perhaps he could make the warring couple simply start fighting through his strange sleight of hand. That said, Dorian supposed Cole would have refused. He didn’t seem to like seeing people argue, after all. Dorian, however, was used to it. He feigned a drunken stumble, and let the wine splash across the woman in the, seeing the material so close, very expensive mustard dress.

“I'm so terribly sorry,” Dorian said, carving his slurred drawl to give the impression of insincerity. His accent, clearly from the barbarian lands beyond Orlais even if they couldn't quite pin him as Tevene.

And if they wouldn't turn their tense anger on each other, whether from a lover's quarrel or tense international blackmailing scheme, they would certainly turn it on him. Drunk, fool, shitstirrer. The third man looked positively baffled. The shattering of large taboos generally did not have so much of a prepared reaction as the trampling of smaller ones.

“Please, madam,” Dorian protested, pretending the woman couldn't be someone of high enough rank for at least a _My Lady_. “Satin launders easily enough. I can have it seen to. Besides, I think the colour is somewhat of an improvement over this absolutely vile piss yellow. Whatever did your tailor sell this to you as? Dead grass? Burnt wheat?”

Dorian didn't chance a look towards the trellis while eyes were on him, in case any should follow his gaze. The woman's lover-or-accomplice had to be physically restrained by the third man to stop him from punching Dorian in the face then and there. Dorian supposed that he would have been willing to take a prettily blackened eye in service of their cause, but would also rather avoid it. The man looked stronger than he seemed up close, a former Chevalier perhaps.

Then Dorian heard the trellis creak, and realised he might not have that luxury of coming out of the evening intact. Well, he supposed, Lavellan was always throwing himself into worse for the Inquisition. Hell, _he’d_ thrown himself into worse for the Inquisition. He would wheedle any injury for all the sympathy he deserved from the lover who was most likely currently dangling ten feet above several dozen Orlesian nobles, as long as they got out of this alive. Dorian dumped the remainder of his drink on the restrained man, and gave a nasal laugh. “There, now you match.”

And he braced himself, as best he could, as the former Chevalier broke free. And as he stumbled back, he could at least spare a wild, roaming glance across the crowd – Varric was cackling at his misfortune by the fountain, and Lavellan, mercifully, was nowhere to be seen.


	43. Chapter 43

To his credit, Varric did intervene. Eventually.

“You certainly took your time,” Dorian slurred, his every consonant dulled and muffled by the embroidered handkerchief Varric had given him to still his bloodied nose. It reeked of rosewater and was initialled with an unfamiliar monogram. Dorian could only assume it had been pressed on Varric by one of his admirers.

“Look, I just wasn't expecting you to...” Varric laughed as he led Dorian around the outskirts of the ballroom. “Shit, Sparkler, I don't know what I thought you would do. But it wasn't that.” He paused, and glanced over his shoulder. “But hey, I've seen enough barfights to know you'd come out fine.”

“Yes, well,” Dorian said snippily. “I was right, by the way. They're lovers.” He hadn't the faintest clue what the rest of his face looked like at the moment, but from the horrified expression he'd caught on Josephine's distant face, he could deduce that it had already started to bruise badly enough to be obvious from across the room, despite the handkerchief.

“Huh, really?” Varric said.

They would have to wait to see how Josephine looked when she found out Varric had smoothed things over by giving the stained woman Josephine's card and telling her that the ambassador would more than make up for his inebriated friend's boorish behaviour. Leliana looked oddly bland, and Dorian wasn't sure if that was merely her mask for the evening or if she was already abreast of everything that had happened in the courtyard. He supposed that was part of her talent, that he truly believed she might have learned everything before he'd even been able to enter the room himself.

“Or they _were_ , at least,” Dorian replied. “You saw how the room turned ambivalent when things, ah, escalated. One doesn't risk such a thing for a mere co-conspirator, even if whether she'll want to continue to be seen with him is another matter.”

He had been expecting the room to cheer like they were watching a penny play when the Chevalier had struck him, but it had been... more complicated than that. Certainly, he doubted nobody in the room would say he hadn't deserved it. He'd calculated that part correctly, at least. But he hadn't considered that the room's glaring attention would have turned from him to the Chevalier, when his only aim had been to keep it from turning towards Lavellan.

“It's a question of what the story will be,” Dorian said. “Whether he's a true noble dutifully defending a lady's honour, or whether he's simply the first man to start a fistfight at the Empress' party.”

It was easy enough to trust that Leliana could keep any damage away from the Inquisition. The versions of the courtyard story she could spread after the fact that would play his part down, with a sly smile from one of her agents. _Who hasn't gotten drunk at a party and done something foolish? And an outsider no less, clearly overwhelmed by Orlesian grandeur. For a man of the Court to start a fight, however – how vulgar, how much better we should expect of him._

But this wasn't afterwards. The story was still in motion, and he could feel dozens of eyes casting him in different roles. Even if Leliana reduced which member of the Inquisition was involved in this fight to a footnote, everyone at this party, tonight, could know close enough to first-hand that it was him, and use that knowledge to confirm whatever they believed about him. _The alcoholic Magister_ , as the mirror-masked woman had put it.

But while he didn't like it, exactly, Dorian found that he didn't care. The band were beginning to set up along the edges of the sunken ballroom, and Lavellan would have to be back within the next half hour to be seen to watch the Empress' first dance. Whether Dorian had bought him enough time – that was all he cared about, right now.

“Well, I guess this was all worth it after all,” Varric said. Making a point of smiling to him in knowing reassurance as he opened the door. “Shame the Inquisitor missed it. He'd only just left the room when that nobleman hit you.”

Dorian smiled briefly in return, despite the sting in his face. “Well, you know how it is. He’s a busy man. I can't even remember who he was supposed to be meeting with.” Lavellan knew what he was doing. Lavellan would find something, even if it was trouble.

Varric's plan had been to take Dorian to the back of the vestibule, behind the stairs to the garden, to make some attempt at patching him up where they were unlikely to be troubled. But as they stepped into the vestibule, Cullen was coming up the stairs to meet a loitering Cassandra, and the Inquisition's late arrivals were following behind him. Solas, Sera, Iron Bull and Blackwall.

“What happened?” Cullen asked, eyes darting to Dorian and hand flashing to his waist; unveiling far too obviously that he had a blade sheathed under his jacket in anticipation of danger.

“He... tripped,” Varric said carefully.

“You got in a fight, didn't you?” Blackwall sighed.

Dorian gave a fixed grin. They would hardly be able to explain that he'd been causing a distraction in public, not with so many ears in the vestibule. Dorian would wear this glib and grinning mask, no matter how it chafed.

“In a manner of speaking,” Dorian replied, studiously languid. He tried to imagine it was to their advantage, to have the purpose of the altercation obviously unknown to even the rest of the Inquisition. “I... tripped, and as I tripped, the glass of wine I was holding may have gone over something it shouldn't have.”

“Some _one_ it shouldn't have,” Varric corrected.

“Someone who punched you in the face,” Iron Bull noted. Dorian was briefly amused to notice that he'd changed his eyepatch, or at least been given a change by, presumably, Josephine. The Inquisition's symbolic eye was stitched over it in gold thread, the effect of which was frankly slightly terrifying.

“Someone whose _lover_ punched him in the face,” Varric replied.

Cullen sighed, and Dorian couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved. Sera looked as if she was getting ideas, and Dorian honestly wasn't inclined to stop her at this point.

“I'll have a look at your wound,” Solas said flatly, icy gaze flitting to Dorian's face.

“Much appreciated,” Dorian replied tightly. This was a clever manoeuvre on Leliana and Cullen's part. Their additional guests had arrived late enough that they wouldn't be announced. They were recognisable enough as the Inquisition from their uniform, but the average attendee may not notice how many of them there were. He assumed there may be other soldiers arriving later, at least if passing Krem and the other Chargers being fitted for one of the Inquisition's red uniforms was anything to go by.

“...Where is Cole?” Cassandra asked, looking back down the stairs.

“I thought he was with you,” Solas said, looking to Varric.

Varric shrugged. “Well, you know how he is. He's probably somewhere quiet.”

“I wish I could join him,” Cassandra murmured.

But as relieved as Dorian was to have more of them there, Cullen's words from their combat drills stayed with him. The more the Inquisition could sneak in, be it people or weapons... the more anyone with at least their influence would be able to do the same.

“Perhaps you can keep me company while Solas attends to my grievous injury,” Dorian suggested. He removed the handkerchief to grin, and immediately replaced it as he felt a trickle of hot blood dribble past his septum. Instead, he glanced pointedly at the ornate bannister Cassandra was leaning on. “Surely it would be a break from loitering in this exact spot.”

Cassandra grunted her reluctant assent.

“Perhaps I should come too,” Cullen said quickly, glancing towards the ballroom he was evidently dreading a return to.

Dorian supposed he should, reluctantly, be the voice of propriety here. “As much as I'd enjoy all of your company, I suspect we shouldn't all linger in the one place.” Not when they had so much ground to cover, at least.

“Then I'll go and look for Cole,” Varric said, shaking his head.

“And I'll return to my… station,” Cullen said grimly. He started, grudgingly, to walk towards the ballroom door, taking most of the others with him. Solas strode towards the back of the vestibule, and Dorian and Cassandra followed.

People were if anything avoiding him more, as if his wound made him more likely to inflict some injury on them. But that did clear one of the reclining benches at the side of the room, which Solas ordered Dorian to sit on. Cassandra refused to perch next to him, instead standing to attention by his side and peering about as if she was anticipating an attack – or worse, an attempt at unwanted conversation – at any moment.

“Do you feel dizzy, or nauseous?” Solas asked. Dorian cringed as Solas probed the wound.

“A little,” Dorian replied. “Although it _is_ a party, Solas. I was expecting to feel one or the other by the end of the evening.”

“You have a mild concussion,” Solas sighed, pressing his pallid fingers against Dorian’s brow. “Hold still.”

Solas closed his eyes in concentration. Dorian could feel the cracking and shifting of healing magic, squirming beneath his skin. Magical healing was never exactly comfortable, even if the way the pressure behind his eyes dissipated was a relief.

“How is the Inquisitor?” Cassandra asked, by way of distraction.

A half-smile tugged at Dorian's mouth. “He's certainly getting around,” he replied. “And as far as I can tell _he_ hadn't gotten into any fights, so I suppose we should consider that a victory.”

Solas removed his hands, although Dorian’s face still felt tender. “This should heal any internal damage.”

Dorian was aware that it was usually considered a waste to use magical healing on bruises, but he still wished Solas would sod conventions and make him presentable again. He didn’t quite suit being ruggedly bruised as much as Lavellan had in the library.

Admittedly, even were it not for Leliana’s paranoia about Celine’s mysterious advisor, Dorian supposed that keeping any spellcasting to a subtle form was generally common sense in polite company outside of Tevinter.

“I suppose this could look rather brave and dashing,” Dorian sighed, gingerly pressing at his swollen brow. “Single perfect scars seem to work well enough for you, Cassandra, or our Commander, if one doesn’t know where I got it.”

Cassandra pointedly raised a brow.

“It won’t scar,” Solas replied, getting to his feet. “Let me know if there are any other… incidents.”

As Solas left, striding deeper into the vestibule, Cassandra still loitered awkwardly. Dorian stood to join her.

“…The waiting is rather frustrating, isn’t it?” he said mildly, studying her frown.

Cassandra sighed. “We’re here to act. Only to be held back by… _niceties_.”

“I finished _Tempted by the Templar_ ,” he offered. “Perhaps, given the dearth of decent conversation elsewhere, you’d care to walk with me a while and carry on our usual book club until the dancing begins?”

Cassandra smiled gratefully. “Please. If one more Chevalier approaches me to try to flirt me into telling him more about the Seekers, you won’t be the only one to have gotten in a fight before the end of the evening.”

And though he still feared, he knew there was nothing to do until Lavellan returned. He made a joking show of bowing to offer the maiden his hand, and to his surprise, Cassandra snorted with amusement and took his linked arm. And as they walked towards the ballroom, Dorian thought he saw a rustle, of silver, red and black, but as he turned to glance through the closing doors, she was gone.


End file.
